


Mojave Express, CC, New Vegas, NV 89155-1604

by BoneYardBettyTheElder



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fisticuff Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge Kink, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoneYardBettyTheElder/pseuds/BoneYardBettyTheElder
Summary: Whomever Courier Six of the Mojave Express was died the day Benny put two bullets into her head. The Mojave had chewed her up and spit her out once before, and she would be damned if she let it happen again. F!Courier/Boone





	1. Dinky The Dinosaur at the Lucky 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This chapter, along with the next two, are currently being reworked. I'm not very happy with them and believe that they'll benefit from some heavy editing.

The Courier hauled herself up to a sitting position, huffing with effort and palming her bleeding lip with a dirty hand, pushing dirt and dust and grime and whatever unmentionable things she had put her hands into straight into her mouth. She grit her teeth against the taste, sand and dust cracking between her molars. The muscles in her cheek jumped spastically, betraying the emotion running just underneath her skin. The girl shook herself off and then launched her fist right back into Craig Boone's _stupid_ face.

* * *

 

The first time the Courier had met the sniper was the same time the edge of his bowie knife had met the delicate skin of her neck. She dragged herself up the stairs inside of Dinky the Dinosaur, limping heavily, hoping to find a quiet place to sit and lick her wounds in peace. She had followed Mr. Noonan's wild words to the McBride Ranch, and the caps hung heavy in their satchel, but at what cost? She had tangled with a Super Mutant over god forsaken  _cows._  Her blood dripped onto the dingy linoleum from her gashed leg and desert-sand rashed arm, and she was eager to apply a stimpak or five from the pack that she dragged behind her. The door required her entire being to open and no sooner than she had clicked it shut, another body was rushing hers, slamming her back into the unforgiving surface. She cried out she connected with the hard door, only then remembering being told about the night time sniper employed by the little settlement. She must've been bleeding, there were little red flecks on his hard cheek. Her lips were wet.

"Mother fucking _cocksucker_!" she swore as she flung her head back in pain. The man's grip on her arm faltered, and his knife stopped pressing so intimately against her pulse. He probably had thought she was a Fiend, covered in blood and dirty.

"God damn it! Don't sneak up on me like that, what do you want?"

"Expecting visitors?" she ground out. The larger man released her and she sunk back into the wall, relieved. She wouldn't have been able to handle a fight, not right now, and she wasn't even sure she could have taken the man down not feeling like she had just been trampled by a wild bighorner. His eyes were dark and hard behind his shaded glasses and his lips were set in a solid line. Instead of sheathing his knife, he let it tip lazily toward her belly. His face said soldier, but his clothes were dusty and civilian.

"Yeah, I guess maybe I am," he said gruffly, then looked her up and down. "But not like you. Hmph. Maybe it should have been you I was expecting all along. Who are you?"

The Courier tried not to grimace at the query. Such a difficult question, since she didn't rightly know who she was. There was a huge, yawning chasm where a life should have been in her head, and no matter how hard she tried, she didn't remember a thing past three weeks prior. At night, sometimes she thought she caught whiffs of some unfamiliar yet familiar smells, riding on the wind of the Mojave and she felt like she should know them but couldn't bring up the memory attached. Like a word at the tip of your tongue. She decided to go with the easy answer. "I'm a Courier, for the Mojave Express."

"Why are you here?"

The Courier shifted uncomfortably against the wall with a vaguely cornered feeling. "If you're looking for someone in particular, I could tip you off if I see them?"

"Yeah, well, you see anybody in Legion crimson or lots of sports equipment, you just let me know," the man responded. It was the Courier's turn to thin her mouth, but it was against a shiver of fear that raced up her spine as she recalled the smell of burning bodies, stacked on stinking mounds of melting tires, the sound of flags flapping in the breeze, men dying on crosses up and down the street. The crunch of her boots like gunshots in her ears. Vulpes Inculta dragging a dirty finger down her face as he spoke close to her ear, breath stinking hot against her cheek. The sniper's voice was sharp when he spoke again. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I, well, uh—" she gestured to her bloody leg. "The office is closed, I can't—"

Boone grabbed the lone chair and tugged it over to the girl with a horrible noise across the concrete. "Here, do what you need to do. Then I think you'd better leave."

The Courier flung herself into the chair eagerly and dumped two stims onto the floor next to her. She wrapped her leg in gauze, not ready to drop trou in front of the intimidating figure to check out the damage. It could wait until she had some privacy. The stimpaks burnt as she injected them, and she grit her teeth against the pain and searched for a distraction. She chose the man next to her. "You always so friendly?"

He made a deprecating sound deep in his throat. "I don't have any friends here."

"I'm not from here," the Courier mumbled in response as she slumped low in the chair. She hurt all over.

"Huh, no," said the man, suddenly contemplative. "No, you're not. Maybe you shouldn't go, not just yet."

"Why?" the Courier asked with a fidget, uneasy.

"I need someone I can trust. You're a stranger here. That's a start."

The Courier straightened in her chair, suddenly alert and ready to help. Maybe this one wouldn't include a Super Mutant. "What do you need me to do?"

"I want you to find something out for me. I don't even know if there is anything to find, but I need someone to try. My wife was taken from our home one night by Legion slavers one night while I was on watch," the man said, arms crossed and posture defensive. "They knew when to come, and what route to take, and they only took her. Someone set it up. I don't know who."

"You want help finding your wife?"

"My wife is dead. I want the dirty son of a bitch who sold her," the sniper snapped.

The Courier swallowed thickly. "What—what do you want me to do when I find him?"

"Bring him out front of the nest here when I'm on duty. I work nights. I'll give you my NCR beret," he slid the very red beret off his head and offered it to the Courier. "It'll be our signal, so I know you're standing with him. Then I'll take care of the rest. This is something I need to do."

The Courier nodded, understanding of the laws of the Mojave she was currently party to, and pocketed the beret. The man had short, dark hair that matched his rugged stubble. "I'll see what I can do to help you, my good man."

"Good. I'll make it worth your while. And one more thing, we shouldn't speak again. Not until this is over. No one it town knows that I know what happened to my wife. Best they never know, or the Legion will be after me next."

The Courier gave another nod, silent. The sky was beginning to take on a pink hue, and she knew exactly which wasteland settler to speak to. He gave surprisingly good advice, for a crazy person.

* * *

"Stay back! Stay back, you, or I'll stick you with my stickin' stick!" No-bark Noonan cried as he brandished a rusty fork, it's tines sticking out every which way rather threateningly. The Courier held her hands up in front of her, trying to calm the incensed man. She had knocked on his door early in the morning, and when no one answered, opened it to call out for old No-Bark, a custom she found to be common in the Mojave. The old man hadn't taken too kindly to the intrusion.

Which led to him chasing the girl out to the middle of the street, shouting and raving, waving his weapon around every which way. He swung it in a wide arc in front of himself and the girl jumped back to avoid being gouged. "Mr. Noonan! Mr. Noonan, please! I just wanted to ask you a question!"

"How do you know my _NAME_?" No-bark howled as he grabbed his head with both hands, and the Courier was worried that he would stab himself before anyone else.

"Mr. Noonan, we spoke yesterday about the brahmin! I killed that chupacabra you saw!" Chupacabra, Super Mutant, was there much difference? No-bark was no longer howling like an injured animal, but he was looking at the Courier with suspicion.

"Wha'chu want?" He growled, still gripping the handle of the fork. The Courier must've had a stabby air around her that week.

"Have you seen anything strange around town lately?"

"I don't trust a man that don't have something strange goin' on about him, cause that means he's hiding it from ya. If a man's wearing his pants on his head or if he say his words backwards from time to time, you know it all laid out there for you. But if he friendly to strangers and keeps his home spick and span, more of'en than not he's done somethin' even his own ma couldn't forgive," No-bark replied.

"Ah," said the Courier. "Well, I wanna know about the wife of the night sniper—uhm," she faltered, searching for the man's name. Fuck. Nothing was forthcoming. No one had given her a name. To be fair, she rarely offered up what she thought was hers. "Uh, so, I'm looking into her disappearance."

No-bark lunged forward and grasped the Courier's aching arm. "I seen em, I do! One night, shadow men, with glass eyes, went into their house then come out a bit after. Held congress in the lobby for a spell, that night, too," he raved, giving his fork a point to the Dino Dee-lite Motel. The Courier grinned at the grizzled man and reached into her back pocket for her deck of Caravan cards. When No-bark saw them, he returned the smile and released her arm. "Now, no more magic tricks today, little lady. You play a man outta his hard earned money the good and honest way."

* * *

After soundly whooping No-bark in a hand of caravan, she made her way to the motel with slumped, exhausted shoulders. Jeannie May Crawford was friendly and polished, a cold sort of polite that had put the Courier on edge from the moment they had met, but she seemed genuinely pleased with the dirty girl leaning on her pristine counter as she left dark smudges on the old linoleum. When the Courier offered her caps for a room, she was turned down and given a key with a warm smile and a gracious thanks for the good deed she had stumbled through the night prior. She almost felt bad that she was going to go ferret through the woman's belongings. Almost.

The door had barely closed before the Courier fell into the bed, asleep before she could even take of her muddy boots.

* * *

The Courier woke with a start, the black room ominous and unfamiliar, and scrambled to her pack, swearing. She hadn't even locked the god damn door. But her pack and everything precious she owned laid untouched where she had dropped it. Her Pip-Boy told her that it was far past midnight, and prime snooping time. She made absolutely sure that the door was locked that time, and pocketed the key.

Down at the lobby, the door was locked, but it didn't prove to be an issue for the Wasteland savvy girl. Inside the lobby was neat and clean, and the Courier went straight for the floor safe that she had spotted earlier, resisting the temptation of the cash register. She laid herself down on the floor and went to work on the safe, breaking bobby pin after bobby pin before it clicked and opened with a hydraulic hiss.

The contents of the safe were sparse, but a little browned piece of paper caught her eye on the bottom of the black metal box, stuck underneath a chipped baseball bat. The Courier noticed the holes in the paper, like it had been refolded again and again. At the top was scrawled ' _Bill of Sale_ '.

The Courier flattened her lips into a hard line, and swiped the caps from the safe. The ones in the register were forfeit now, too.

* * *

The Courier's eyes were wide and white against the crimson blood splattered across her face and soaking her hair, but her hand was steady as she handed the sniper the crumpled paper. He seemed to take an eternity to read the words as his face steadily grew darker and the girl wasn't surprised when he crushed the paper between his fists.

The Courier reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but he ripped himself away into the concave side of the dinosaur's mouth. The sniper stumbled to the jagged plaster teeth and the Courier reached forward again, about to pull him back from the edge when he began to heave. Once, twice, three times he retched, using the teeth to steady himself as he heaved again, finally vomiting, choking on his own sick violently before he sank to the floor on his knees to rest his head against the knee-high wall. He started to wipe at his mouth shakily and the Courier palmed the beret off her head, hair in a state of disarray.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It would be like them to keep paperwork," he spat. The sniper got to his feet as he threw a heavy sack of caps at hers. "Here, this is all I can give. I think our dealings are done here."

"What will you do after this," questioned the Courier as she toed the bag with her boot, unsure if she actually wanted the man's caps after all.

"I don't know. I'm not staying here, I know that. I don't see much a point of anything right now, except for hunting Legionnaires," the sniper sighed as he accepted the beret from her hands. "Maybe I'll wander, like you."

"Come with me. We can go after the Legion together."

The man shook his head with a strange jump in his cheek. "You—you don't want to do that."

"I thought snipers worked in teams?" the Courier asked. She didn't know how she knew that, just like she didn't know how she knew how to read, or how to shoot a gun.

"Hrn," the sniper grunted. "Yeah. Working on your own, you're a lot less effective. I've been there and paid for it." He was looking thoughtful now, and reached out to touch the Courier's sleeve before he seemingly thought better of it and dropped his hand. "But this isn't going to end well."

* * *

Boone was surprised at the force with which the Courier flung her petite body, feet leaving the ground as her fist connected with his cheek, her entire being behind the punch. His head snapped back and he stumbled, but he didn't fall. Pain exploded in his face where her flesh kissed his, sandy fingers scraping away skin. The sniper ducked away from the next swing and brought his knee up to deliver a devastating blow to her abdomen. Her body hit the ground with a thud, and her head connected not a second later with an even more sickening sound, but she was up again within the space of a breath, shaking her head to clear it, dark hair shining chestnut in the sun.

Not to be bested, the Courier lunged again, this time cracking Boone in the skull with the butt of her rifle. They were gathering a crowd now.

* * *

The Courier had dragged Boone to hell and back on whims and her near-suicidal savior complex.

First, she had sheepishly revealed her agreement with one Manny Vargas – deal with the ghouls in the facility to the west of the town in exchange for information about the Great Khans that had been through the settlement and the man in the checkered suit. When Boone asked why she was tracking down the rough looking men he recalled stumbling into town a few days prior, she lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug before she opened her mouth to respond. The girl was interrupted by a rotting ghoul charging at them from the carcass of a dead mole rat, and Boone swore she looked mighty relieved when more feral ghouls charged them.

"By the way," she said later as she was ferreting through abandoned supplies a few hundred meters away from the facility, "I don't think I ever caught your name."

Boone grunted as he picked through an ammunition box full of energy weapon ammo, all useless to him except for the caps, recalling that no, he had never given her his name. "Boone. Craig Boone."

It wasn't until much later that he realized that she had never offered up a name in return.

* * *

 

Boone was a man of few words. He usually let his trigger finger speak for him, which usually worked just fine in the Mojave. The Courier, on the other hand, had many, many words – so many, Boone came to learn, that when she bargained and bartered with her many words, she somehow placed them all in just the right order to come out on top at the end. He stood dumbly by as she spoke easily, leaning on the butt of her battered varmint rifle, to ghouls and Super Mutants alike.

She upheld her bargain with Vargas with little more than the breath in her lungs and a handful of bullets, and if the olive-skinned man was surprised to see the other sniper in step with the girl, he didn't show it. Boone felt like he held his breath until they were out of town.

But instead of heading north to Boulder City after Novac, the Courier led the man south and east. When questioned, she waved her hand dismissively. "I've been following those Khans and their trail of stupidity across the desert for a week now, and something tells me I'm not going to be losing their scent any time soon. We have a more pressing matter to attend to," she explained, and went on to tell the tale of the town of Nipton being razed quite nearly to the ground by Vulpes Inculta and his Legion trained troops, and the men they took prisoner. "I scouted the camp earlier, and there were too many for me to take on alone. I knew I needed backup," she gestured happily towards Boone, "and now, I have that backup!"

Boone was surprised that she was planning on making good on her word so quickly – and he was quickly coming to learn that she was quite good on her word, but the situation rung too close to his heart. Legion slavers. He stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of how little he actually knew about the girl he was traveling with.

Quite obviously younger than himself, she couldn't have been more than twenty or so, and a bit on the skinny side, her battered clothing hanging off of her frame awkwardly, making her silhouette look gangly. She had a pretty face, though, with light eyes and ruddy, sun-kissed cheeks from long days in the Mojave. Her dark, messy hair hung in tangled curls and obscured most of her face; it hung long, much longer than Boone had ever seen in the wasteland, but she made an effort to stuff most of it underneath a stiff-billed canvas hat, all sun-bleached and splattered with dark stains.

Boone repeated his question from early that morning. "Why are you after those men?"

The girl stopped mid-step and stumbled a bit before turning to face her traveling companion. Her expression was resigned, and she gave the same half-shrug she had given him previously, before she pushed back her hat, taking hair along with it, and tilted her face towards the sniper. Above her thick eyebrows was a network of angry pink lines and pock marks that extended up past her hairline to her left, where her hair was shorn short in patches. He could tell that it was growing back, and he could also tell that the girl was sporting two healing bullet wounds to the face.

"I had a package, and it was worth a life to some people," the Courier mumbled, not looking directly at Boone. "It was a poker chip, made out of platinum. I'm going to hunt down that bastard in the checkered suit and find out what's so damn important about that stupid chip."

"What's your name?" Boone asked, even though he already knew the answer. She didn't know.

"I don't rightly know," she sighed as she smoothed her hair back down over her forehead and firmly placed her cap back on her head, kicking up a bit of dust from the desert sand. "I don't have a memory older than three weeks, when I woke up in Good Springs." The Courier dropped her heavy canvas pack and flipped open the top flap to reveal a splash of embroidered color, bright against the faded fabric. 'Clarke,' it said, surrounded by little thread flowers and birds, such misplaced femininity in the rough and tumble wasteland. "I've got this, and a delivery order signed the same way, and as far as I can gather, it's my name." She tapped her temple with two fingers. "I got two in the skull, then had the good doctor of Good Springs dig around my head after them, I'm lucky my memories are the only thing I lost. At least I'm still housebroken."

Boone barked out a laugh that surprised even him, and the Courier's eyebrows jumped up behind her hair. Boone cleared his throat, heat creeping up his neck. "I—I'm sorry for that. You're damn lucky to be alive."

The Courier laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, something like that."

* * *

Boone heard the camp before he saw it. The heavy flapping of tent fabric in the wind, the delicate metallic clink of a flagpole or two. The Courier lowered herself down to sneak towards a dark outcropping of rocks and Boone followed suit, shrugging his rifle off of his shoulder. The girl reached the natural barrier first and motioned for Boone to stop. "I draw them out, you pick them off? Good plan? Good plan."

Before Boone could tell her that that was a _stupid_ fucking plan, she was off and running into the camp, quicker than he had expected for the petite female. The man swore and hurried into position to ready his rifle. There were already shouts and gunshots from the camp below, and he wasn't sure exactly what he was seeing through his scope. The broad machete that had hung from the girl's hip – an item Boone thought was more to intimidate than anything else – was in her hands as she swung it in a wide arc to bring it crashing down through a Legionnaire's skull and outwards again in the same motion to slice through another's belly. Her expression was fierce and wild, hair flying untamed behind her. Gone was clever diplomat familiar to Boone, in her place was a ferocious destructive force, fueled by righteous vengeance, cutting through Legionnaires and causing an uncomfortable feeling to worm it's way into the pit of Boone's stomach.

Boone squeezed his trigger and dispatched three crimson draped men in the time it took the Courier to hack another two to death. She swung her machete high above her head to bring it down onto another Legionnaire, but he managed to snatch up a pike to save himself seconds before she connected with his head. The Legionnaire – no more than a boy, Boone noted – wrangled himself away and hurled his arm our in a circle, knocking the blunt metal pole into the Courier's side with a thud. She doubled over and he kicked out his leg into the Courier's chest, sending her flying to the dirt as he threw his pike to the side.

"Profligate bitch," he snarled as he stalked up to her as she clutched one arm to her chest and scrambled backwards desperately, pawing for her spare blade. Boone swore again and took aim, but dust flew into the air instead of blood or brain, and two more Legion soldiers were running up between the tents. Things were spiraling out of control quickly.

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," Boone spat, and one running Legionnaire's head exploded into a fine mist; his fellow soldier dove behind cover and Boone ducked away from the spit of a machine gun. The young soldier grabbed handfuls of chestnut hair and lifted the girl up to form a ten-fingered noose around her neck. He started to squeeze.

" _Clarke_!" Boone shouted, hoarse and desperate, and two heads swung around to search for the source, a fatal mistake. The machine-gun wielding soldier was dead before he hit the dirt, and the Courier's little knife was so deep in the other's neck, Boone couldn't see her fingers. Blood rushed down her arm as she was dropped, and it gushed straight down her front in a wave when she wretched her knife free with a squelching sound.

Boone scrambled over the rocks and down the short decline, face dark and stormy, clutching his rifle in his fist with an iron grip. The Courier had a dreamy look on hers as she wiped her knife down her shirt uselessly, and it didn't change when Boone grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him.

"You – fuck you! I didn't god damn sign up to watch you kill yourself, that wasn't part of the deal," Boone snarled and jabbed the barrel of his rifle between her breasts, but she just turned her bloody face up to him looking distant. "Are you okay? Is some of this blood yours?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Yeah. Yeah to both. I thought you said my name. It sounded like my name."

"What? Clarke?" This time her eyes sharpened and her gaze shot right through him, and he let go of her arm uncomfortably, not liking the way his heart was still racing, hands shaking. He wasn't entirely sure it was all from adrenaline.

"It sounds like my name. It's the first time I've heard it out loud," she said, searching around for her fallen cap and machete before heading over to the three captured criminals. She pointedly avoided Boone's eyes.

He didn't mind. The pounding in his chest and warmth in his belly were engrossing enough without her turning those eyes back on him.

* * *

She didn't speak for a long time after that, not until the sun had fallen behind the horizon and her face was cast into dark shadows by the bright embers of their dying fire. She sat on her heels and poked at the coals with a crooked stick, and as annoying as Boone had found her rambling, he found that he actually missed the sing-song sound of her voice as she prattled out information regurgitated from where ever she had learned it. She sighed heavily before speaking.

"I've learned that I am… impulsive, at times. I just, I get these niggling little thoughts or feelings and then I'm neck deep in all sorts of trouble, like bleeding up in Dinky that first night," she said, gazing into the fire. Boone gave a grunt, and Clarke laughed. Was this thing weighing so heavily in the pit of his stomach camaraderie? It felt so unfamiliar. "Anyway. I wasn't trying to get myself killed, but I would understand if you'd rather not travel with me."

Boone's spine straightened and his lips thinned into their familiar line. "They got what was comin' to them. I'm glad we were the ones to give it to them," he said flatly. Of course he wanted to travel with her. And of course, he would never say the words, but the Courier was sharp as a tack. Her face brightened and it split into a wide, toothy smile. One of her canines was chipped into a jagged edge. "But next time, don't go running into glory without me."

Clarke put her face in her hands and gave her signature shrug, still grinning. "Yeah, okay. Why?"

Boone snorted. "Cause I don't wanna watch you die."

* * *

Veronica and Arcade were getting in between them now, Veronica lifting the kicking and swearing Courier off of the bleeding sniper as Arcade lifted Boone up under one shoulder to guide him to sit on the steps of the Lucky 38. The Courier was spitting and hissing like a feral cat, furious that the target of her rage was no longer within striking distance.

"Fucking lemme go! Fuck – Fuck _you_ , Craig Boone! You fucking cocksucker!" she hollered around Veronica, still struggling in the larger woman's bear hug, feet kicking uselessly in the air. She tried to yell obscenities again, but she started to choke on her words, her rapid breathing not subsiding. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Boone hung his head between his knees in shame as he pressed a dirty cloth to his nose to staunch the bleeding. His left eye was already swelling shut, but Clarke wasn't looking much better. "Veronica, let her go. I deserve whatever she does to me."

Arcade recoiled away from the sniper, suddenly very unsure of his friend, as Veronica loosened her grip just enough for the Courier to shrug herself violently from her grasp. Tears were leaking freely down her face now, cutting white lines into the dirt on her cheeks. They had never seen their fearless leader in such a state. "Fu-fuck you, fuck you Boone," she yelled, breath hitching emotionally. "Couldn't get what you wanted out there, so you think I'll finish the job for you here?"

She scrubbed furiously at her eyes and shook her head. "Well, fuck you, man. You can find someone else to go and watch you die."

The Courier snatched up her pack and stalked up the stairs to the casino. The doors closed with an ominous echo, and Boone felt a huge pit open up in his stomach.


	2. Third Party Negotiator

The ruins of Boulder City sat impossibly on one another, leaning at odd angles as if it could all come crumbling down at any moment. The Courier loved it. There it sat, a perfect visual representation of her entire being. Somehow, against all odds, still standing, but for how long; no one knew. It was wonderful and terrible in the glaring afternoon sun, casting long shadows into the entire valley in which the city sat.

Dark figures ambled around, and as they approached from a hundred yards away, Clarke could make out the vaguely mismatched and ill-fitting military fatigues each was clothed in. The Courier motioned to them. “These your people, the NRC?”

“The NCR,” Boone corrected. He seemed relaxed in the friendly territory, his rifle remaining slung over his shoulder as a soldier noticed them from in front of a battered radio and came towards them with a stony expression on his face. His eyes were red and tired.

“This area is off limits—“ he started, but faltered when he caught sight of Boone’s red beret. He quickly straightened into a salute. “I’m sorry, I thought you were some civilians. I’m Lieutenant Monroe.”

Boone returned the gesture and nodded towards the ruins. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a situation with some Khans right now. The brass at McCarran has ordered a lockdown the ruins until it’s been resolved. One of our patrols was on it’s way back from Novac when it encountered the Great Khans and fire was exchanged. They radioed for reinforcements, but they didn’t wait for us,” Lieutenant Monroe sighed as he dug into his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “No deaths, not yet, but they grabbed two Privates as hostages and nobody can seem to spare a negotiator. What a god damn mess.”

The Courier bit her lip and fingered her huge machete. “These Great Khans might have something of mine,” she said haltingly. What a mess, indeed.

“Once these Khans are killed or captured, you’re welcome to retrieve whatever items they may have stolen from you,” Monroe responded, walking back to his post next to the radio, the two travelers not far behind him. It crackled with static hopelessly. “Those two kids are as good as dead if we have to use force,” the Lieutenant mumbled under his breath.

“I might be able to help negotiate something, sometimes I think the only thing I’m good at is talking,” the girl laughed, trying to force levity but failing. The Lieutenant looked at Boone for confirmation, and the man crossed his arms and nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Normally, I’d tell you to beat it since I have no idea who you are, but…” Monroe looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Right. I’m going to give you a chance to talk to the Great Khans. Their leader is a man named Jessup. If we hear shooting, we’ll come in after you, but it’ll probably be too late.”

The Courier set her lips into a determined line and nodded, “I understand.”

“God speed and good luck,” he responded with a very grim salute.

* * *

The Courier left Boone waiting with the nervous soldier and slid past the barricade with one last cheerful wave to the sniper, as if she was going on a nice Sunday stroll instead of facing down a gang of very dangerous tribals on her own. She didn’t seem to fill the Lieutenant with an abundance of confidence, the man slumped against the wall as the rickety door rattled shut and put a shaking hand to his face to rub his eyes.

“I hope you trust that kid,” he grumbled as he dropped his hand to look at the other man, eyes flicking up to the red beret again. It was fairly amazing, the weight that such a simple piece of cloth carried in the wasteland. Not for the first time, it had swayed the tides of favor in his direction. The sniper pushed away guilty discomfort.

“I’ve known her for less than a week,” he admitted. The Lieutenant straightened up with an incredulous look that quickly morphed into rage. Boone hurried to complete his thought, not eager to exchange blows with a decent man, “But if I trust one thing about her, it’s her words. A mighty bit better than any official negotiator I’ve ever worked with, sir.”

Monroe didn’t start swinging, so Boone figured he had said the right thing. Maybe the Courier was rubbing off on him, and contrary to his very nature, he started to speak again, “Those Khans, they already tried to put her in a shallow grave. I don’t even think they’d be stupid enough to try again.”

The Lieutenant nodded his head towards the ruins, “Why? Why wouldn’t they try to finish up someone they left for dead?”

Boone grunted and shook his rifle off of his shoulder to hold it in his hands. “If they think they could kill ‘er after the two bullets they left if her skull didn’t, I’d like to see them try.”

This effectively silenced the soldier, who cast his eyes over to the barricade with the same question Boone batted around in his head written on his face. Who exactly was this courier?

* * *

After what felt like eons, noises began to emerge from behind the barricade and Boone scrambled to his feet, rifle at the ready in seconds as the Lieutenant drew his side-arm and both rushed to investigate the commotion, worry thick between them. Boone crashed through the plank door with his shoulder, swinging his rifle up, ready for carnage and blood.

Instead, there was his smiling traveling companion, surrounded by laughing and hollering soldiers and flanked by two dirty, white-faced Privates. He heard an incredulous sound beside him, but ignored it in favor of drinking in the sight before him; an entire squad, alive. Not just alive, but joyous. Celebratory. What a rare sight out here in the Mojave.

Clarke hurried over to him and butted him in the chest with her shoulder, a bright, toothy grin splitting her face in two. She waved a fancy, shining cigarette lighter in his face, glittering prettily in the setting sun, and she sounded out of breath when she spoke. “His name is Benny, I know where to find him.”

Boone cracked the smallest smile, but the crackle of the radio caught his attention. Lieutenant Monroe was standing over the radio with the receiver clenched in his hand. His face was grim and his voice was like gravel. “We-we’ve been given the shoot to kill order, hostages or not.”

“What?” The Courier yelled, palming the Lieutenant’s shoulder, who was shocked enough stumble back a step. “I got your boys out of there, they get to go home to their families, those Khan’s just want to do the same!”

“My hands are tied, girl, I can’t go against orders,” Monroe snapped, before glancing over to Boone with a pleading look in his eyes. “Can I?”

“You look at me, Lieutenant!” Clarke growled deep and jabbed a finger into Monroe’s chest. “If you have any integrity, any at all, you’ll honor this deal. Nobody has to die today.”

Silence hung heavy between each soldier as they waited with bated breath to see what sort chaos was about to ensue between their commanding officer and the little slip of a woman, but the Lieutenant just nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Those Khans are good to go.”

* * *

Long shadows danced around the camp, cast by the roaring fire and jovial soldiers as they celebrated a day’s excellent work. The two rescued Privates were surrounded by their peers, occasionally at the receiving end of a hearty back-slap or a ruffling of hair. With so little to celebrate, they clung to their victory. Lieutenant Monroe produced two golden bottles of wasteland rum that ended up mixed into bottles of warm Nuka-Cola. Laughter echoed throughout the otherwise quiet desert.

Clarke and Boone were sitting just outside the ring of light from the fire, leaning against a lopsided boulder, shoulders brushing as they passed a bottle of Nuka-Cola back and forth. The dirty toes of their boots glowed brightly as Boone ignored the sensation of her fingertips grazing against his knuckles and the dusty smell of leather that hung heavy around her.

“You know,” he spoke slowly, trying to chose his words with the same sort of ease she was capable of, “you saved lives today. You saved all these recruits, all these kids. Kept them from becoming murderers.”

Clarke gave him a sideways glance that made him feel naked for a moment before she shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “No, no,” she chuckled. “These are good men and women. They would have figured something out without my meddling, I’m sure. ‘M not doing much more than making myself a nuisance.”

Boone leaned back a bit to turn to face the girl fully, and placed a solid hand on her shoulder. He was shit with words, and didn’t know how to fully convey the weight of what she had done, didn’t know what to do about her forced naivety. Clarke looked a little uncomfortable under Boone’s intense gaze, and he felt a bit glad for it. It put them on even ground, for a moment at least. “You don’t know, as a soldier, getting orders like that… Soldiers aren’t trained to make judgement calls, they’re trained to take orders. Those kids were ordered to gun down those Khans, and they would have.”

The Courier looked at him through her lashes, awfully cool and calculated, but her voice was sweet when she spoke, “You seem to be speaking from experience there, my good man. I’ve seen my fair share of terrible things out here in the wasteland these past few weeks. You could talk to me about it.”

The sniper gave a quiet huff and shook his head. Not likely. “Maybe some other time,” he grumbled. Boone gave the brim of her hat a flick of his finger and raised an eyebrow at his companion. “I’d like to hear your story, Courier.”

Clarke laughed, throwing her head back. There was still a bit of blood crusted around her nose. “You wanna hear about the dumb shit I’ve been pulling from here to Good Springs? I’d like to be able to retain some dignity around you, are you sure?”

Boone just rolled his eyes and tipped back another swig of the bitter cola. He didn’t need to humor her question with an answer that she already knew, so he concentrated on slipping the warm glass bottle back into her dirty hand without touching her fingers.

Clarke chuckled again. “Fine, you old stone, if you’re so hard up for a bedtime story. The first thing I remember was feeling like I’d risen from the dead, and what would you know…”

* * *

She woke to a light so intense it rang between her ears like the high pitched whine of a radio, followed immediately by waves of pain that arched through her body. She lurched her shoulder forward to try to roll onto her elbows, but she felt hands on her back and words were starting to emerge for the cacophony of drums that pounded in her head.

“Woah there now, easy. You’re awake,” a figure was starting to come into focus, a kindly looking old man with a concerned look on his face. “How about that? You’ve been out cold a few days now, so why don’t you just relax a second. Try’n get your bearings.”

She coughed and groaned before sticking the tip of her tongue out to wet her brittle lips, but she just swept away skin with the dry sandpaper of her tongue. She grimaced at the faint taste of blood. The man leaned forward and held a clean bottle of water to her lips, which she drank greedily, slumping back into the hard bedframe.

The room was dusty and the windows were dirty, but in the air hung the heavy smell of sterile equipment and bleach. She furrowed her brow at the man and tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze. She tried again, “W-who?”

“I’m Doc Mitchell, and this here is Good Springs,” he replied and helped the girl to more water. “Now you, let’s see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?”

The girl turned her head to look out the window before slowly turning her eyes back to the Doctor. She searched her mind for something, anything, but she couldn’t bring up a damn thing. She opened her mouth and closed it helplessly before she shook her head. “Fuck,” she mumbled.

Doc Mitchell laid a sympathetic hand on hers and smiled sadly, in an understanding way, and shuffled through his pocket for a crisp piece of paper, folded neatly in half. He handed it to the girl. “Here, this is yours. Had it on you when you was brought in. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave it a look, thought it might help me find a next of kin,” the old man paused as clumsy hands unfolded the paper. “But it’s just some delivery order for a platinum poker chip. Think your name might be on the bottom there. Looks like you might be a courier.”

Trembling fingers traced the printed words down to a looping signature, which sat on a line next to a small ‘x’. ‘C. Clarke’, no first name. Courier for the Mojave Express. She looked up at the Doctor with a quizzical look on her face.

“Isn’t what I woulda picked for you, but if that’s your name, that’s your name,” he said with a chuckle. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go rootin’ around in your noggin’ to get all the bits of lead outta there. I take pride in my needlework, but why don’t you take a look and tell me if you think I left anything outta place?”

He pushed a cold, silver mirror into her hands, and she looked down. She didn’t know the face the stared back at her. One blue eye was red where it should have been white, and most of her skin was an ugly purple. She barely looked human. “I don’t know this face,” she echoed her thoughts out loud as she traced her chin with a trembling hand.

The Doctor pulled his lips into a sympathetic frown as she shoved the mirror back at him. The Courier put a hand to her temple and grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I’ll give you something for that,” Doc Mitchell shuffled around for a moment, wiped at her arm with something cold, then said, “Little pinch.”

He was right, compared to the pain in her head, it was a little pinch. She was asleep before her head hit the stained mattress.

* * *

The next day, the good doctor helped Clarke stumble her way down the hallway to the bathroom, where he stood with his back turned while she did her business, then shuffled her back to the cot where she sat, heaving for breath as if she had just run miles. She tried not to think of the new red stains on the upper left corner of the already stained mattress, exhausted as she was from her bathroom expedition, she just wanted to lay back down where she had been for the better part of a week.

Doc Mitchell had different plans for her, though, and brought out a thin soup with bits of maize and soft pinto beans. Jalapeño floated in the clear broth enticingly, and she was surprised to find it delicious.

It was far less pleasant coming back up several minutes later, though.

* * *

  
On the third day, Doc Mitchell had her walk on shaking legs to the vigor-tester on the other side of the room, him hovering close the entire time, assuring her, “Take it slow now. It ain’t a race.”

Clarke grabbed the edge of the cold machine and steadied herself, grateful for the added support.

“Looking good so far,” the doctor praised. “Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. We’ll learn right quick if you’ve got back all your faculties.”

It took her what felt like forever to complete the testing, and she was exhausted by the end of it. The doctor gave a low whistle when he took a look at her scores. “Would you look at that. Maybe them bullets did your brain some good.”

He had her stumble walk into the parlor where he administered more tests and proclaimed that, despite her catastrophic injuries, she’d be well enough to be released within the next few days. The doctor had given her paper and a pencil, and they confirmed her signature. She could still read and write, and with every step, Clarke felt stronger. As the hours went by, she found she believed the doctor’s words more and more, except for when he told her that those missing memories may come back some day.

He showed her a dusty canvas pack, slouched next to the front door, full of belongings, telling her that his fellow townsfolk had recovered it after she had been found. Her last name was colorfully embroidered in the canvas, and the inside was lined with soft, patterned fabrics. On top of everything was a faded, stiff billed cap crusty with blood. She snatched it up and ran her hands over the rough fabric. It felt familiar.

The very next day, she said her good-byes to the kindly doctor, and headed in the direction of the Saloon to inquire about the men who shot her, but instead, found Sunny and her canine companion. The offer for a lesson in gun handling was too tempting to pass from the pretty girl as she held her weapon against herself comfortably and her giant wolfhound butted Clarke’s hand with a cold nose, her arm heavy under the unfamiliar weight of the gifted Pip-Boy that now adorned her wrist.

Both Courier and survivalist were surprised with the coordination and ease with which she used the rust little varmint rifle to battle several very deadly bottles, while making wise cracks after each shattering of glass. Soon laughter joined the sound of gunfire, and when Sunny invited the other young woman along for a gecko hunting trip, Clarke agreed quickly.

Just a few hours later, they returned with another young woman in tow, saved from the geckos that were slung over Sunny and Clarke’s shoulders, ready to be skinned and cleaned.

“Good eatin’,” Sunny explained as she showed Clarke the proper way to tug off the gecko’s scaly hide before ripping the pluck out of the cold lizard. “I’ll butcher you up some steaks, while I’m elbow deep in gecko parts, you do me a favor. Trudy, the barkeep up at the saloon, she’s a bit of the town mom. She’d like to meet you, and she’d sure be cross with me if I didn’t ask you to poke your head in and say Hi.”

“Will do,” the Courier agreed.

The heated conversation in the bar could be heard from outside the door, and Clarke cast a wary glance at the old man who sat on the sagging porch, who shrugged and shook his head almost as a warning. She pushed into the saloon with a hand on her machete, but hung back as the middle aged woman exercised a sharp tongue on the rough looking man, who looked unimpressed right out the door.

The woman rested a hip against the bar and crossed her arms before tilting her chin towards the Courier. “You the kid Doc Mitchell been patching on up, ain’t you? I’m Trudy.”

Clarke fidgeted awkwardly with her cap and nodded. “Yes’m, I was hoping to ask you some questions about the men who attacked me, actually. The good doctor told me you might be privy to some information about ‘em, being the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

Trudy snorted and walked behind the counter, slapping a sleeping patron with a rag on her way by his sticky table. “You sit that smarmy ass on down, you look like you could use a meal or two. Whatcha drinkin’?”

Clarke blushed hotly. That’s what she got for being overtly solicitous. “Oh, I don’t have much in the way of caps—“

“Ain’t say nothin’ about any caps, little lady, now, what would you like to drink? There’s sarsaparilla and ‘cola, can’t rightly serve you nothing harder, Doc Mitchell’d have my head,” Trudy said before she bumped her elbow into the radio on her crowded counter. “I’d offer you tunes for a weary soul, but those thugs managed to beat up on more’n you.”

The Courier offered to look at the busted appliance, and so over a package of YumYum Deviled Eggs and a cool bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla, Clarke tinkered with the bar radio and asked Trudy question after question. The older woman seemed pleased to answer whatever query was thrown her way, and by the time the radio buzzed to life, the Courier was well armed with information for the pursuit of the men who had tried to kill her, but she felt the tugging of guilt in the pit of her stomach.

“It seems awful selfish to just wander off without offering up some help in return, ma’am. Who was that man you were arguing with when I came in?” She asked as she pushed away from the bar.

“That’s a whole mess of trouble you want no part in, girl,” Trudy said, not unkindly. “That there man is a convict. Cobb an’ his ilk escaped some few weeks back, down the road here. They’ve taken exception to a passing merchant, want us folk to turn the innocent boy over.” The older woman gave her a raised eyebrow and a sly smile. “If anybody could find a way to help Ringo out, they’d be mighty well liked here in town. I’d be inclined to give them a nice discount, too. Rhetorical and all.”

The Courier returned her grin. “Rhetorical and all.”

* * *

“… and so I didn’t leave town ‘til after I helped the good folk of Good Springs out with their Powder Ganger problem,” the Courier finished, laughing quietly as she drank down the dregs of their booze bitter soda.

“Hold on hold on hold on,” her companion complained, joined by a chorus of murmurs from the soldiers who had wandered over to hear her story, kneeling or squatting in the dim glow of the fire, leaning on rocks or standing. She even spied the Lieutenant off to the side, sipping straight from a bottle of rum with an intense look on his face. Boone’s voice wasn’t exactly warm, but it had lost it’s hard, gruff edge she had come to expect from the man, “you can’t gloss over the part with the Powder Gangers. It sounds like the best fuckin’ part, kid.”

Clarke laughed and bumped her shoulder against Boone’s. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine. Make me tell my most embarrassing memory, and in such fine company, too. I’m on to you, my good man,” she chuckled good naturedly. “Well, Sunny and I, thick as thieves, us, decided to round up the townsfolk for a grand stand-off. Couldn’t sneak the caravanner out of town, they’d just catch up with him next town over, you know?” There was a low rumble of assent from the small crowd. They had all dealt with the gang in one way or another in the past months since the prison break.

“So here I had remembered that I had spied some brock flowers and xander root near the water pumps, to make some healing poultice for our heroic battle,” she explained. Clarke remembered the day so clearly, dreamed about it sometimes. It was bright and dry, and the ground cracked underneath her feet, the sand baked hard in the sun. The air was still and heavy, carrion birds pecked at a carcass amongst the bent, rusted cans and hollowed out corpses of camping trailers. Everything had seemed so new and different that she barely noticed the dirty mess of a man at first. She nearly shot him when he called out to her. “I ran into this settler, told me that his… wife, girlfriend, I dunno, he called her his girl, she had gone up a ridge and was trapped by vicious geckos.”

Just the day before, she had to launch herself between a young blond woman and a purple gecko before it tore into her throat. She wasn’t more than a few hundred yards away from town, either. “I rushed off to be the hero, of fucking course,” she laughed. A couple of soldiers started to shift uncomfortably, worried that the tale was about to take a less entertaining turn. “I ran up the ridge and there had to be twenty of the fucks running around,” she rolled up a sleeve and turned her arm to reveal ripped flesh that was healing well, “and was given this souvenir. Honest, I’m lucky I didn’t end up ate. I managed to get up this goddamn ridge, and there were body parts everywhere. A torso with the head still attached, a ribcage, limbs. Had to be at least three bodies up there, but no woman. None of it was fresh. There was a fridge full of supplies and a gun case up there in a little camp, though.”

She had managed to keep her gecko steak breakfast down, the bodies were dry and picked clean of good flesh, ripped away by gecko mouths. The stink was minimal. “And then!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. “This little fuck comes up, all cocksure and happy that I got rid of the geckos so he could raid the stash he knew was up here. Must’ve seen me help that girl at the pumps or something. So as a thanks, he starts shooting at me!”

She had dove to the side, covering her head with her arms and pulled a gecko corpse between her and the raider. She had starting shrieking, curses and foul words she pulled from some hidden stash of knowledge in her brain, with a vague hope that one of the settlers from town had decided come to the source, or maybe Sunny chose to follow after the Courier, like she had threatened to do earlier, but no one came.

“I, uh, I threw a gecko at him,” she admitted, inciting raucous laughter from the men and women around her. It had hit him square in the chest, leaving a deep maroon slick down his front, and stopped him from pulling the trigger long enough for Clarke to claw desperately for the weathered 10mm pistol that she had found at the bottom of her pack yesterday and ducked around the cliff face and up a steep hill, scrambling on her hands and feet as bullets ricocheted around her again. “Then I ran like a little bitch. He was no marksman, that’s for damn sure.”  
When his gun had clicked empty, he threw it to the side and gave chase, bellowing in rage. ‘Why don’t you just die so I can take all your caps?!’ he had screamed at the retreating girl. He was bigger and faster than her, and such as it was, he was on her in seconds. She didn’t know what to do, except bring up her gun up and squeeze the trigger with her eyes shut tight until her own weapon clicked uselessly. When he slumped against her feet and over her knees, she looked down at his wide, unseeing eye, the one that remained. Half of his neck and his cheek and the eye above were gone, and he was leaking unmentionable lumps all over her pants.

“I shot him up good, then puked on his corpse, innocent young girl I am,” Clarke said to her company, laughter rippling through the crowd like a gentle wave as she put her hand on her chest and batted her eyes in an exaggerated display. “Honest! First dead body I’d ever seen, or remember seein’, and me who made ‘im that way. Puked on him near from head to foot.” She joked, now, but that day, with a corpse that stunk of shit and piss and vomit halfway up her legs, she had scrambled away, sobbing and retching on her side. She was heaving with sobs within minutes, scrubbing her bloody hands against the hard earth of the Mojave in a futile effort to get them clean, panicked. She puked again when her palms wouldn’t come clean.

“After a bit, I had a dawning realization. Those convicts wanted a body, and here one was dropped right in my lap, quite literally, same hair color as my boy Ringo, too.” Her ‘dawning realization’ had come on the tail of another realization; she couldn’t have a couple of wasteland settlers dying over this mess, and die they would. She saw Sunny’s eyes, blank and leaking, instead of the raider’s, before seeing Ringo in the dead man.

She scrambled to her feet and set off, dragging the stinking body to the now empty fridge for ‘safe keeping’. Stripping Ringo was easy, dressing the body was less so. She threw up a third time before throwing the corpse into the dry pile of bones and skin.

By the time she was done, the gifted Vault Suit from Doc Mitchell was near ruined, and she looked like she had crawled back into the grave just to dig herself out again, but Cobb was easy to convince to follow the much smaller person just past the edge of town, accompanied by four other dirty convicts armed with dynamite and guns.

They prodded the body over onto it’s back and one covered his nose when congealed blood splashed on his boots. Ringo’s red kerchief was soaked through with blood, and a couple of caps came tumbling out of his pocket, just as the Courier had hoped.

“The gang took the body for Ringo, thank the stars,” Clarke finished, again. Her companion was much more pleased with how she wrapped up this time around, and nodded as if he had been there. “A bit salty about how I ‘killed Ringo’ instead of being able to do it themselves, but honestly, they never specified if they wanted him delivered dead or alive, I said.”  
“Now I have me a fine discount at the Prospector Saloon over in the good town of Good Springs, a friend in the caravan business, and the worst gang in the Wasteland thinks I’m some sweet little murderer, not worth hassling on the road. A better outcome than getting the whole lot of them killed, I’d say.”


	3. Jury Rigged Cap Mine Versus Ferocious Loyalty

kindness begets kindness

The valley of Boulder Springs was barely behind them the next morning when Boone pointed out the bright, glowing city of New Vegas, glittering like a jewel in the early morning light. The tower of the Lucky 38 Casino cast a hazy halo into the sky, and even as they edged closer and the rest of the city disappeared from view, the 38 stood out like a beacon to the lost. Boone noticed the gaps between the Courier’s ramblings became longer, the conversation more sparse, the closer they got to the city. She started to fidget with the edge of her cap and her hair, awkwardly tucking up strands just to pull them down again.

Boone agreed with her apparent unease associated with the little pocket of civilization; he had never liked the Strip himself. The only good thing about it had been Carla, beautiful Vault girl from the beautiful city. One oasis within another. A fine deal better than what was owed him, that was certain, and the memories still made his stomach ache for his late wife.

The sniper made an eager detour to the Gun Runner’s, where the two dusty travelers traded their random goods for caps and ammo. Boone was fairly shocked when the robotic vendor paid out over a thousand caps as the Courier slung a much more empty pack back onto her shoulders. She shrugged at Boone’s incredulous look.

“Look, I pretty much grab anything that isn’t nailed down,” she said defensively, but Boone only raised an eyebrow before shrugging back. Courier, Negotiator, Prospector, it all made for a better resume than Boone’s own; he was a murderer, who dabbled in cowardice and long reaching depressive guilt.

The east gate of Freeside loomed over them much too soon for Boone’s liking, gaudy and rusted from years in the Mojave sun but the Courier seemed to be looking at everything but the towering metal doors. She slowed to a nearly a crawl, then stopped completely before the shadow of the gate touched the dirty tips of her boots before raising her eyes up from the ground.

Clarke stood there for several long moments, her hands hanging by her sides and trembling. Boone thought she looked as if she was about the fly apart at the seams at any second, dread flowing off of her like waves. Her eyes were wide and white, reminiscent of the night they first met, and he found himself shifting uncomfortably in his own skin.

He wasn’t at all surprised when she turned on her heel and started walking back the way they came.

* * *

Boone’s chest was heaving under the heavy weight that settled against his sternum, but his arms wouldn’t move to push himself up. When he moved his head weakly, blood poured out of his ear, but the Courier wasn’t moving at all, lying on her face with one arm twisted awkwardly underneath her. His ears were ringing and dust was still settling around him from the explosion. There was blood everywhere, on the ceiling, splattered on the walls, and part of a leg was lying completely under the desk next to Boone.

“Goddamnit Clarke,” Boone swore as he tried to push himself up again, and noticed that the heavy weight on his chest seemed to come from the bit of shrapnel imbedded into the fabric of his shirt on his right side, the dingy white tee already soaked in blood. “You better not be dead, you _bitch_.”

The Courier’s injured arm twitched and she let out an agonized moan before rolling over, her limb flopping uselessly along with her. It was bloody and badly burned from the blast, the nails on most of her fingers gone. It was an ugly sight.

“Duh…Don’t call me a bitch,” Clarke ground out through clenched teeth as she groped at her dislocated shoulder, touching the bleeding patches gingerly as she looked everywhere but her ruined hand. Her voice was husky, as if she’d been asleep for days. “What happened?”

“What part of ‘ _don’t touch the bodies_ ’… didn’t you get, Courier?” Boone snapped, shifting to lean against the upturned desk. The man was lightheaded, but he grabbed the edge of the hot shrapnel in his chest and gave a yank. It flew free with a sick squelching sound, but it was a squat little thing much wider than it was long, and the flow of blood was sluggish. It clattered loudly as Boone threw it to the side.

“Survivors should be our first priority, _Sniper_ ,” the girl lashed back with a snarl. She was lying on her back, breath hitching with pain as she opened and closed her injured hand, and beads of sweat were leaving streaks of white skin in their wake.

Boone glared at her for a moment before huffing and looking down to his chest. “Learn this, Clarke. The Legion doesn’t leave survivors. They leave traps.”

The trek back to Novac from the ranger station was a slow one, the Courier and the Sniper leaning against one another with every painful hobble in an awkward three-legged dance. Boone’s head swam with every swaying step, and he bent over to retch more than once, while Clarke’s good hand, slippery with blood and shaking, twisted up in the back of his shirt to keep him from stumbling ass over foot into the dirt. He suspected that if he went down, there would be no getting back up, both of them weak and injured as they were.

The ringing in Boone’s ears rose to a shrill pitch as Dinky appeared, and their trek slowed to an inch. He was vaguely aware of a voice, so far away, but the Courier’s breath was hard and hot on his clammy neck as she shouted at Ada Strauss’ turned back, hundreds of yards to the left, and one of her burly bodyguards nudged the would-be doctor with an elbow.

Boone had never been much of a fan of the woman, truth be told. Her hollow medical façade did little to hide her blatant chem distribution service, and the man was certain she enabled old No-bark’s addictions, but her flat, plain face was a beautiful sight as she palmed her other guard and came running towards the bleeding pair. The sniper barely cared that she had little to no credentials right now, her supply of Med-X and stimpaks usually seemed never ending for those who could pay, and the Courier’s purse was heavy with Gun Runner caps. Boone wasn’t sure which one of them fell first, but his knees hitting the dirt jarred his teeth together enough to chip one, releasing sandy shards of tooth into his mouth that he couldn’t seem to manage to spit out. Clarke slipped out of his grip, but before he could wonder why, the floor of the Mojave came rushing up to meet him, and that’s all he remembered.

* * *

Boone came to to the buzzing of flies on his face and the oppressive desert heat pressing into his skin and filling up his lungs. When he moved his hand to brush the insects away, it felt as if he was pushing his hand through water or fabric, slow and heavy. He wondered just how much Med-X Ada Strauss had administered to the pair, and the thought snapped his eyes open wide. Did the Courier even survive?

She was breathing slowly next to him, their cots pressed close together in the corner of Ada’s cramped tent, barely six inches between them. Her injured arm was wrapped from fingertip to shoulder in white gauze, but blood and pus seeped from little gaps in the bandage and her face was flushed red with fever, dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her lips were cracked and bloody, the big, ugly bullet-wound scars looked pale and white next to the bright pink of the rest of her skin, and she needed new clothes. The Vault Suit she had worn had been ripped completely away from her injuries, leaving it missing an entire arm, and torn open from navel to throat. Someone had tried to pin it closed awkwardly with three little bobby pins, but Boone could see more gauze between the folds.

Boone struggled to sit, his own dingy white tee-shirt gone and chest wrapped tightly with bandages. There was gauze taped to the side of his head, right over his ear, but he seemed to be in mostly working order as he swung his legs off the side of the dirty cot. His knees hit Clarke’s bed, jostling her, but her breathing didn’t change from it’s slow, steady pace. He wanted to reach out and shake her, or maybe to just touch her to make sure she was actually alive, but he didn’t dare.

The slight Courier, for some damn reason, could make his head swim when he hadn’t been blasted halfway to hell with a jury-rigged cap bomb, so he kept his hands to himself. He waited several minutes before trusting himself to stand, then stood for several more, steadying himself against a table topped with a chemistry set, bubbling happily away and smelling of chems, before he walked out of the tent into the glaring sun of the Mojave morning.

Ada made a noise halfway between an grunt and a gasp when she saw the sniper stumble out of her tent and grabbed his forearms. “You really shouldn’t be up, mate,” she snapped with no real rancor. “Let’s grab Mr. Boone some water, yeah?” She directed the order to one of her bodyguards, who ducked halfway into the tent before reemerging with purified water.

Boone wanted to gulp the bottle down, but he knew enough to sip lazily, lest he end up vomiting all over the good doctor. “How long?” he asked, his voice gravely and rough.

“Today is day six,” Ada admitted. “I reckon you had yourself a nasty concussion, and I had to stitch your nipple back on, so don’t expect it to be quite as pretty no more.”

“Where did you get… clean supplies?” Boone knew he should have been asking about the Courier, fever sick in her cot, but the sniper didn’t really care to hear the answer. Six goddamn days. He wondered if her blood had turned to poison yet.

The woman snorted in derision. “You really think the fine people of Novac would let Lady Jane over there go without clean bandages for her delicate, heroic self?” she pounded out, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the tent and the unconscious woman within. The doctor didn’t sound pleased. “They flagged on down the first merchant who passed on by, bout four days past. Damn near spent every cap in town, but didn’t matter none. Infection already set in on that arm by then.”

Boone physically flinched. The infection would definitely kill her, but amputation at the shoulder would probably just do it faster. He wondered how much shrapnel they had to dig out of the girl, and was honestly surprised she had yet to die. On the other hand, if two to the skull couldn’t keep her down, how could she let herself be taken down by a fever?  
Maybe her luck had just run out?

“Listen, Craig,” Boone resisted against the urge to recoil when Ada used his given name, “Your friend in there needs a real doctor, not some two-bit hack with a tent. She needs meds and chems I just ain’t got.”

At least she admitted it, but they had few options. Ranger Station Charlie might’ve been equipped with the medical equipment necessary to handle injuries like Clarke’s, before the entire command had been slain and their bodies rigged with explosives. Other stations closer to the river barely had supplies for their own men, constantly fending off raiding parties and dealing with skirmishes along the sandy banks of the Colorado, and those farther west were much too far, past…

“Goodsprings. There’s a doctor in Goodsprings, the one who dug those bullets out of her, he’s back in Goodsprings, and by the look of it, the best doctor we’re gunna find in the Mojave right now,” Boone said, a clear note of desperation in his voice.

Ada’s look wasn’t a confident one. “And what, strap the kid to your back for a day and a half? Ain’t no quick way to get to Goodsprings, what with Primm Pass gone to hell with that Deathclaw and all. She’s sure as hell to die before you get where you’re going, then more than likely will drag you on behind her. The fever dreams started yesterday at dawn, best we can do is give her Med-X for the pain till the reaper takes her.”

“What sort of fever dreams?” The former soldier knew a thing or two about fever dreams, saw more than one of his friends lay there, hours or days before death, eyes wide open but unseeing as they cried for their mothers, or to people who weren’t there, or thrashed away from some invisible monsters. Few who had fever dreams lived past a week out in the trenches.

“What does it even matter? She was calling for some man, Paul, Saul, something like that, kept saying sorry to some girl, Jeanine. You know who they are?” Ada asked.

Boone shook his head. It was likely that Clarke didn’t even know who they were, not anymore. She might’ve left her life in that grave in Goodsprings, but left behind her memories instead. It would be no service to her to let her slip away quietly in a dirty tent under the shadow of Dinky _the Fucking Dinosaur_. The sniper had long forgotten that that sort of drive, the will to live, even existed, and he couldn’t just snuff it out. Not this time.

Boone furrowed his brow at Dr. Strauss. “So, what you’re saying is that she’s sure to die here, but she just _might_ die on the road, right?”

* * *

Nearly every settler in Novac filtered on by before Boone took off down south towards Nipton in the midmorning light. The McBride couple came by with several dried and salted brahmin steaks to tuck away into Clarke’s pack, and Old Ranger Andy came shuffling up to him with apologies and guilt and enough ammunition for a small platoon. Boone insisted the old man keep his guilt, reminding him that it was the Legion that had raided the ranger station, but readily took the ammo with thanks. Even No-Bark appeared to shove several Stimpaks into the sniper’s hands, who didn’t bother to question where they had come from.

It took four pairs of hands and very clever wrangling to slump the Courier over Boone’s back before tying her in place with long strips of bloodstained fabric, several under her knees and more under her arms to keep her in place. They bit into Boone’s stomach and chest, making it hard to breathe, but he didn’t complain. The discomfort he felt now would be nothing compared to the agony he would be in after a day of hard walking with an extra hundred odd pounds slung over his back, and he’d rather not think too hard about the stinking bandages that no doubt played part in the infection in Clarke’s arm, sitting wrapped around their bodies. Perhaps any hopeful raiders would take him as the dead man Ada labeled him as. He knew that any sort of firefight would be fatal, so avoidance was his lone defense. His only grace now was how light the Courier’s usually heavy pack was as he swung it across his chest.

Ada had come towards Clarke with another dose of Med-X, but Boone had waved her off and administered just a small dose himself, intent on making sure the Courier didn’t drift off into death due to an overdose. It wouldn’t be fun, but if she woke, the sniper would handle the hallucinations. Still, he counted out a bit over a hundred caps to bundle into a purse for Dr. Strauss. She had saved their lives, after all.

A few hundred yards outside of town, just before Dinky disappeared from sight, Boone heard a familiar voice calling his name. He closed his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh. Wasn’t the day already hard enough to face without this sort of encounter?

Manny was sweating and armed as he jogged up to the overburdened sniper, and he gave a faltering smile, obviously unsure. “I heard you were making your way to Goodsprings, I didn’t really believe them,” he panted, trying to catch his breath. It _was_ particularly hot that day.

Boone resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, but knew the reality of it; word traveled fast in such a small settlement.

“I’m coming with you,” Manny didn’t ask, he acted as if he was simply presenting the facts of the situation. Boone narrowed his eyes at the former Khan. Truth be told, he would probably benefit from the help, but he would also rather lay down and die before traveling with the other man, rather than having to face down their past and the heavy, complicated emotions that hung between the two. Besides, if Manny left behind the small town, they would be without any sort of protection from the dangers that roamed the desert sands, and Boone told him as much, not unkindly. The other man looked obviously torn between loyalty for his home and the memories of comradery he remembered between himself and the sniper.

“Besides,” Boone said, “Ranger Station Charlie was hit not two miles away from the town, every one of those trained men and women were murdered. What do you think the Legion will do to Novac if you give them half the chance?”

The sniper knew he won as soon as Manny’s shoulder’s slumped forward in defeat, but he didn’t feel as good as he thought he would have when the other man looked at him with sad eyes and his lips pulled down into a deep frown. It was silent between them for a few moments before Manny spoke. “I always thought she was going to come back, you know.”

Boone bristled. “ _What_?” he snapped. If he was honest to himself, he had suspected Manny above everyone else in town for his wife’s abduction, up until he had read the Bill of Sale for his wife and unborn child. His friend had been glad when Boone had told him that she was gone, and Boone had blamed Manny for his long, lone trek to Cottonwood Cove with every step he took.

“I thought she left in a huff, and when you went off to look for her, I thought for certain you’d come back with her, and when you came back alone, I thought she’d wander back into town after you for sure. Maybe if I did a little less thinking, you’d know that I still have your back, man,” Manny said with a humorless smirk, looking down. “I just always thought she’d come back.”

Boone started to turn away, tucking his arms underneath Clarke’s knees. When he spoke, if was muffled by the rough fabric on this inside of her elbow. “Well, she never did.”

“Boone!” The other man had waited until the sniper had put a healthy amount of distance between the two before calling out to the sniper’s turned back, who just glanced over his shoulder without pausing. “I hope this one doesn’t break your heart.”

Boone groaned low in his chest and shook his head, not honoring the statement with a response. He would have stalked back there and thrown Clarke’s limp body at Manny Vargas’ face if he had the excess strength.

Hugging the western side of the cliffs between Novac and the isolated towns nestled in the wide, flat valley beyond them, Boone slipped around boulders and scrambled up steep inclines to stay off of the heavily traveled concrete highway. It wasn’t long before sweat beaded on his forehead and sluiced down the back of his neck in a warm trickle, but he didn’t stop as he rustled through the Courier’s pack for water. A mostly clean rag was soaked before he awkwardly reached over his shoulder to squeeze a few drops of water into the Courier’s mouth, and he could only hope that some made it down her throat. Her lips were cracked when his fingers brushed against them, and his fingers came away a little bloody, but at least she was still breathing steady against his skin.

Soldiers in the NCR were trained like soldiers of the old world, one of several attempts to reclaim pre-war glory in the ravaged wasteland. As such, Boone had come to be accustomed to long treks burdened by his uniform, pack, supplies. It wasn’t rare to see men and women with upwards towards two hundred pounds strapped to their backs, transferring from one post to another, but Boone hadn’t been part of the NCR in years, and soon his back was screaming, fire lancing through his shoulders. He didn’t falter, conjuring up images of his training, back when this sort of agony was the norm. Back then, though, he had Manny huffing under his own burden by his side, and he suddenly regretted denying his old friend’s help.

Finally, a deep, paved gully ran to his left that opened up into the main streets of Nipton, but the concrete was cracked and ashen from years of explosives and firefights, and Boone knew that this area was a popular one for gangs and raiders to lie in wait for unwary travelers. He could see the wreckage of several pre-war cars and a bus, pocked with bullet holes, and a still hand, no doubt attached to an equally still body, peaked out from behind some twisted metal. The walls of the gully were rocky and sloped sharply, and as pebbles tumbled and turned underfoot, Boone found himself steadying them on his hands and feet, feeling very much like a pack brahmin with his head hanging between his shoulders, watching his own movements carefully, lest he took both of them tumbling down the hill.

The body seemed to come out of nowhere, settled between the slope and a large rock that Boone had vaulted over easily before he stumbled and fell, limbs catching his legs and turning his feet so he landed hard on his chest with an agonized grunt. His chest exploded into pain and for a few seconds, he just knew that he made a fatal mistake by letting his attention wander, until he realized that the hands that seemed to grab at him just moments ago were stiffened into claws and still, skin pulled tight over bones. The man’s mouth was open wide, and his tongue was black and filled with maggots. Birds had eaten his eyes and pecked away at the skin of his cheeks and skull, leaving wisps of hair that might have once been blond. The body had dried and baked in the sun long enough that there was no stink to the corpse, but he had been sheared quite nearly in half, a long, deep cut that ran from his right hip to his left shoulder. Some larger sort of animal had taken advantage and eaten his organs, leaving brown blood smeared on the packed sand, and bits of meat had dried into hard stones in the sun. The sturdiness of his armor had spared the body from the worst of the creatures of the Mojave, though, and it made Boone uncomfortable seeing an intact human instead of the usual bones, picked clean and chewed open to gnaw on the marrow within.

Boone briefly wondered if this raider fell to the Courier’s notched machete, his wound so reminiscent of the Legion soldier who had been split from shoulder to hip as Clarke spilt his guts to be soaked up by the sands, and decided that she had been the most likely culprit. There were few people wandering the wasteland that would pass up bullets to favor a blade, probably because people in the latter category were pretty effectively murdered by those who toted guns around. You know, people with sense, Boone thought to himself.  
The sniper put his back to the body, and gazed out towards the horizon. Here, he was faced with a choice. He could continue on west then north, following the highway all the way up to Primm and Goodsprings, keeping up hope that his trek would stay a lonely one, or he could slide down the incline and set a hard pace up the train tracks, free from any prying human eyes, but also trapped on both sides by tall cliffs, with no where to run if non-human eyes decided to take interest in the two interlopers.

Boone only stood there for a few moments before making his decision, skidding down into the ravine with one hand behind him to steady himself until his heavy boots hit the metal rails and he turned north. The sniper had to contend with vicious animals daily, so given the choice, he decided to deal with wild animals for once.

* * *

The setting of the sun did little to lessen Boone’s agony as he left the miles behind him. His skin was red and peeling, and he was sure that the exposed skin on Clarke’s face had to look worse after hours unchecked in the blistering rays. Each step felt like he was wading through hot water as his boots kicked up clouds of dust, and every time he had to twist himself to pull Clarke’s arm over his shoulder to check her Pip-Boy, she slid lower in her makeshift sling and wrenched his shoulders back. By the time the soft lights of Goodsprings came into view, Boone was cursing his stubborn pride, trying to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other as his body screamed at him to stop and lessen his burden. Every rustling breeze through the desert, he drank up like water, turning his face to take gulps of fresh, sweet air, because as soon as the wind would die down, the rank smell of infection and necrosis settled back over the two like a blanket.

Despite his agony, the sniper felt tendrils of relief worming it’s way through his belly as every step pushed the long miles behind him. Soon, the soft, glowing shapes that made up Goodsprings transformed into the solid lines of buildings, and he could make out the Saloon nestled behind the burnt husks of motorcycles and dirty stacked crates, which Boone stumbled towards immediately. He didn’t know where to find the doctor, but he did know where to find Trudy, de facto mayor of the settlement, and help.

“What—What in the hell, boy?” Boone startled and tripped, falling to his knees and scraping his palms against graveled stoned that had been beneath his feet. He didn’t move or speak for several long seconds before he tilted his head to find the source of the voice. The old man that he hadn’t noticed before was rising slowly from his chair, hand creeping for a revolver strapped to his hip. The younger man wondered if it was the lingering concussion or simple exhaustion that had made him this careless as to let a white haired fellow twice his age get the drop on him.

“ _Please_ ,” Boone rasped, muscles shaking under the strain before he collapsed to the side, shoving the Courier’s hot arm into his face and trapping one of her legs under his hip. He heard the old man shout for Trudy as his limp fingers tore at the bandages holding the girl’s body to his own so he could roll away and onto his back. The old man rushed over to the Courier’s side and rolled her over as well, letting Boone get a good look at his companion for the first time in many hours, and she looked several measures worse for wear than she had that morning. The side of her face that had been exposed to the sun was blistered, an angry crimson, and she was breathing so very slowly. The stabbing pain in his gut at the sight was leagues worse than the physical pain that seemed to radiate out of every pore, and it made Boone wonder if having to watch this woman die was another punishment, just as he was utterly convinced that Carla’s death was some sort of reparation for his ugly past.

“What happened, son?” The old man was asking him with kind eyes, and his revolver was still holstered. Boone distantly heard the slamming of a door and then felt another body next to him, but he tried to focus on getting words out of his dry mouth.

“Doc—Doctor Mitchell,” he managed before turning to the side to cough roughly, and caught sight of a woman, who he assumed was Trudy, and other figures that were hanging back on the sagging porch of the Saloon. She turned towards the small crowd and started snapping.

“Well, didn’tcha hear the man? Sunny, you go on ahead and tell the good doctor to prepare for another visit from the Courier,” she ordered, and people started to scurry off the porch. Two settlers, who stunk of booze and oil, picked Boone up under his arms and together, with the sniper sagging between them, they stumbled off behind Sunny.

 


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on vacation this week! Wish me luck as I brave rollercoasters with my own little whirling mess of chaos that I call my child.
> 
> I'll be posting small interludes, scenes that don't quite fit into the beginning or end of chapters, or drabble length chapters. They'll usually be reserved for weeks such as this, when I'm on vacation.
> 
> Non-vacation interludes will be posted on Fridays, so keep an eye out for them!

If the doctor was surprised to see the Courier again, it didn’t show on his face. He just quietly sighed and directed the settlers with a firm voice where to place the two injured travelers, then the crowd filtered out just as quickly as they had appeared outside the Saloon, leaving behind only the doctor with Trudy and a young woman in leather armor, who had to be Sunny, the girl the Courier was so fond of. Sunny and Doc Mitchell went straight to work, pulling off Clarke’s ragged Vault suit and dirty bandages. Boone closed his eyes before he could see the ruin of her right arm, but could still smell the lingering stink of infection. He heard Sunny give a strangled cry, and knew it was just as bad as he imagined. His bed dipped slightly and a warm bottle of water was pushed into his limp hand as he opened his eyes to Trudy. “Thank you,” he scratched out.

“What happened to her, son?” Trudy asked, her eyes following Boone’s actions as he swallowed gulps of water. Her eyes were narrow and the sniper could easily read the distrust in her voice.

“A—a bomb,” he replied, voice already stronger than it had been just minutes prior when he was begging for the doctor. Trudy straightened out her arms from where they had been a moment ago, resting on the edge of the stained mattress and gave Boone an incredulous look.

“Where? What the hell? Who are you, anyhow? Ain’t no NCR soldier going out of his way to might near die for no wasteland courier, so ‘far as I’m lookin’ that fancy beret got got in no pleasant way, an’ we don’t take to murderers kindly in these parts,” Trudy’s voice was sharp as a whip and Boone would have responded in kind if he hadn’t just dragged a friendly face back into her town just about to knock on death’s door.

“Craig… Boone,” he still sounded husky and the words hurt to force out past his ragged throat. “First Recon Sniper Battalion. Haven’t served under the NCR flag in years, though, ma’am. The Legion is responsible for this.”

“These here wounds are already starting to heal, son,” Doc Mitchell’s voice sounded from the other corner of the room, the unasked question plain. Boone explained that he himself was badly injured and the only medical help wasn’t much medical help at all.

“I left Novac this morning, she needed more than they could offer,” Boone said.

“That’s for sure,” Sunny mumbled as she carried away an armful of bloody bandages, only to appear seconds later with bags of fluid and brand new strips of cloth. “Trudy, we need you.”

Boone leaned back and closed his eyes again. He lost consciousness to snippets of conversation and words.

“Sepsis.”

“Fever.”

“What do we—“

“Doc, I don’t think she’s breathing.”

 


	5. Mojave Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Update schedule notes at bottom*
> 
> CW: Brief Mention of Suicidal Ideation
> 
> Chapters containing triggering themes such as suicidal thoughts or actions, substance abuse, or other emotionally taxing subjects will have content warnings (CW) at the beginning of the chapter so my readers can avoid emotionally triggering events. 
> 
> That being said, many authors use themes such as suicide, grief, and crisis to enhance storytelling or further the plot, myself included, but we cannot forget that these are real issues, that real people experience.
> 
> But that also means that there are real world resources for those struggling with these issues. These resources are all based in the United States.
> 
> The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can be reached at 1-800-273-8255, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week
> 
> The National Crisis Text Hotline can be reached via text at 741741, where you can speak, live, to a trained crisis counselor in your area
> 
> The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration has a free, confidential, 24/7 helpline that can be reached at 1-800-662-4357, where you can find referrals to local treatment, support groups, and community based organizations. 
> 
> You are not alone, and there are people who care, deeply and resolutely, about you.
> 
> **Updates**
> 
> These issues have hit particularly close to home recently, as on 8/13 I unexpectedly lost a loved one. This chapter (5) and the previous (4) were written and edited before these events. Unfortunately, now my chapter well is severely depleted.
> 
> There *will not* be an update next week, and the next ‘chapter’ will be an interlude. After the September 6th update, the update schedule WILL BE changing, as Spawn of Boneyard will be in school.
> 
> Thank you for all of your reviews and messages, they’re greatly appreciated!

She made it through the first night, and then the next. The first day Boone spent in the bed that he had been deposited in the night prior, sipping water and nibbling on thin brahmin stew, eyes never straying far from the Courier on the bed just feet away, even when the kind doctor coaxed him into sparse conversation. The old man quickly learned to ask Boone questions that required short answers, one or two words, a yes or a no, but he was eager to ask, particularly on the topic of the Courier and her introduction into the town. The next day, Boone wandered up into the graveyard and kicked around small piles of dirt until he came across a shallow hole, just about Clarke sized.

Rage pooled in the base of his throat but with no direction to point it in, it was useless, so he knelt down and examined the grave instead of giving in to it. It was so haphazardly dug that if he hadn’t known better, it wouldn’t have even registered as a grave, except for the caked blood at the bottom of the sloppy trench. The sniper noticed a blood trail off to the right that culminated in a gruesome splatter and was struck with the stark reality of the fact that the Courier was _shot in the head_ right where he was standing, mere weeks ago. He touched the dirt and ran the earth through his fingers, trying to keep his hands steady.

Boone thought of Carla, dirty and naked and crying through the scope of his rifle, standing near a mile away from him on the slaver plat. No gun was half as powerful at that distance as one pointed at a face point blank, so what forces colluded so that Clarke survived and Carla didn’t? It didn’t make sense, Doc Mitchell had dug two bullets out of the Courier’s skull, but Boone had only pulled _his_ trigger once.

 _What right did this stranger have to survive when Carla had died? It wasn’t_ **fair.**

Boone turned with a snarl and kicked the side of the grave, screaming his frustration out into the wasteland. The world was playing more sick games with him, and he just wanted it to _end already_. He couldn’t do it, though. Every time his rifle found it’s way underneath his chin, he couldn’t seem to pull the trigger. Every time he found himself facing down death, he ultimately did everything in his power to avoid it. Instead of waiting up in Dinky for the reaper to finally come, he agreed to travel with another person and exposed her to the dangerous fate of Craig Boone. _What was wrong with him._

The dirt beneath his foot gave way, the side of the grave collapsing, and he pitched forward onto his hands, half burying the evidence of Clarke’s near death experience, but it did little to lessen his anger. He grabbed fistfuls of dirt and dug his fingers into the ground, ripping up as much of the bloodied land as he could, and flung it into the grave, then went back for more. By the time Boone’s heart stopped racing and he realized how ridiculous he must have looked, dirt was caked under his fingernails and up to his elbows, and tears and snot were running down his face in an uncharacteristic display of emotion unlike anything he’d done since before Carla had died. He sat back on his heels and gazed out towards the horizon and was surprised to see New Vegas glittering like a jewel in the distance, then wondered if perhaps this was the last thing she saw before she took two bullets to the head and was buried in a shitty grave.

Maybe that was it.

_If someone can’t manage to dig a damn hole in the ground, it’s no wonder they’d fuck up a headshot at point blank range._

* * *

  
They called it Goodsprings for good reason, Boone decided a few days later, the town must have gotten it’s name from it’s good people. He spent his hours trekking back and forth to the town water supply with small groups of settlers, rifle held loosely at his chest until he had to bring it up to pick off the inevitable three or four purple geckos wandering around and splashing in the shallow puddles underneath the spigots. He brought the pests back to Sunny, who then passed gecko steaks out to the dozen and a half settlers.

A farmer brought a basket of aloe and other sundries to the Doctor for the Courier, and he offered Boone a spiked green leaf for his own burns. The sniper had stared silently at the other man until he turned back to Doc Mitchell, but Boone was quick to scrape away the outside of the plant as soon as the door closed to smooth the gel over his tender skin. When the Doc asked Boone to do the same for the Courier, though, his mouth went dry and he stumbled over his words to explain that he was able to cause injury with ease, but medical procedures were far beyond him. The doctor graciously ignored the fact that placing salve on a burn was hardly a procedure.

Every time he started to think too fondly of the people in town, though, he was quick to remind himself of Novac, and the safety it’s walls used to offer, his misplaced trust in Jeanie May Crawford, and the scrawled Bill of Sale in his pocket. He would take it out and unfold it, smoothing out the wrinkled paper before crushing into his fists again and shoving it away. It did well to reinforce his distrust for the general populace, and for the most part, they seemed wary of him as well, which served Boone just fine. His beret seemed to earn him no friends in the part of the wasteland, far away from the NCR territory in the Mojave, and the sniper found it refreshing, even if their distrust in him was just as arbitrary as his distrust in them.

In the long hours at night, though, when he couldn’t sleep, he found himself lingering by the Courier’s bedside, fingers plucking at the frayed edges of the mattress. Sometimes they would dance close to her uninjured arm, close enough to touch, but he would recoil at the last second, the moment her breathing changed or a muscle twitched in sleep. It was a silly game, but Boone was so _confused_. Where Carla had been supple curves and delicate smiles, Clarke was hard lines and a hand on a bloody machete. He wasn’t even sure if he liked the girl all that much.

Carla had been easy to love, too beautiful by half. Boone was _certain_ that he had loved her from the first time he ever saw her on the strip, glancing over her shoulder at Boone and the rest of his squad with flirtatious smiles, arm in arm with other girls, but none of them had shone to him like Carla did. The swell of her hip hypnotized him, and her golden curls bounced with every swaying step. Her lips matched her dress and her eyes were smoky and dark and inviting. She was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he wanted to see more.

The woman looked like the ones in faded pictures or old artwork from times before the war. His pre-war beauty, so untouched by the wasteland that had ravaged everything Boone had ever known, he wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t resist her pull. That first night, he spent hours listening to her low, sultry voice as she stirred her drink with polished fingernails and rubbed his calf with a spotless kitten heel. When she crossed her knees, her petticoat rustled against his pants, and it was more thrilling than any tryst he’d ever experienced.

She asked if he liked her dress, flipping the hem to show him her careful stitching, and her laugh was like music when a blush crept up Boone’s neck and he looked away before complimenting her talent. She laughed that same laugh when she grabbed his collar to pull him into her little room in Vault 21, kissing away his embarrassment and self-conscious fumblings. With whispers against his ear she purred as she told him that she was glad that he liked her dress, she liked his fatigues while her polished fingers tugged at his buttons. When he buried his face in her heavy breasts, she smelled of flowers and expensive coffee, and when his fingers sunk into her fleshy hips, he left little red marks in her pliant skin that darkened into bruises by the next morning. She woke with smiles and pressing her body against his.

Yes, it had been very easy to love Carla, to whisk her from the life she had grown bored with, but then they had been robbed of their years together, their time cut so short. There were times when he wondered what would have happened if he had never taken her away from her beloved New Vegas, and let himself be wrapped up in the lights and the money and the clean pressed shirts with glasses of golden bourbon. He would have hated it as much as Carla had hated Novac, he was sure, with it’s strange inhabitants, the thin layer of dust that seemed to coat everything, no matter how much you cleaned, the bland desert food, and the never ending hard work. It was never the wonderful adventure Carla had thought it would be, wandering the wasteland with a gun strapped to your hip and the rest of your life on your back, and she knew it the second day, when her feet ached and her mouth was gritty and sour from tepid water and dried brahmin jerky. She never turned back, though, and Boone had loved her all the more for it. Their plan, her plan, to travel the wastes, searching for the best place to settle, was quickly forgotten when Carla decided that the miles between New Vegas and Novac was far enough, quiet enough, to start their family.

Manny’s own ramblings and commendations to the town whittled away at her resolve, and Boone had been reluctant to bring his love back into the wastelands where she didn’t belong, begrudgingly rooted into fringes of the desert.

There was no saving the Courier from the wasteland, no sultry looks, no feminine wiles, instead she seemed like she was part of all of it, grown from the sand and rocks of the Mojave, a force of nature. She looked so alien lying still on a mattress, stripped down to ragged underthings, without her patched Vault Suit and rusty Pip-Boy, she didn’t look like herself. Her machete and weathered 10mm were nowhere to be seen, tucked away in the other room with her pack, her collarbones jutting out from her chest and the skin under her eyes was bruised and ugly against too clean skin, making her look as fragile as glass.

Fragility sat on the Courier like an ill-fitting dress, obviously out of place, and it made Boone’s stomach turn leaden with some heavy emotion he couldn’t quite name. It was sour and unpleasant and tasted vaguely of fear, and when he retreated to bed to squeeze his eyes shut, it did little to lessen the weight in his belly. When he fell asleep, he dreamt of Legion soldiers and Clarke holding a bomb to her chest, and when he woke, she hadn’t moved.

* * *

  
The next day Trudy approached him with suspicious eyes to ask if he’d take his rifle up to the cemetery to clear out a growing swarm of bloatflies that had started to encroach upon town, for a small sum of caps, of course.

While Boone stood outside the Saloon, checking his rifle and adjusting the sight to account for the sporadic flight patterns of the insects, Sunny and her massive hound wandered over, Sunny living up to her name as she beamed a smile at him. Aside from the doctor on the hill, she was the only settler that approached him without some amount of trepidation, and he found that he didn’t mind her; she was quiet enough, never lingering long, and Boone was pretty fond of the animal that usually followed close at her heels. It made him wonder if he should find himself a canine companion, quiet, deadly, and not prone to random bouts of diabolical betrayal, but he shook off the fantasy fairly quickly; domesticated animals were few and far between in the wasteland, and with his luck, his friendly pet would actually be a friendly feral, and as soon as it got hungry enough, it would eat his face off, as wild animals were wont to do.

When he told Sunny where he was going, her smile faltered some, and Boone frowned in response, but let it go. The entire town seemed to share the same poor opinion on the graveyard to the north of their town as Boone, an opinion probably formed sometime after a young woman was shot in the head just a couple hundred yards away from the settlement.

Sunny held up a dusty cloth sack and announced that she was off to forage for the doctor – medical supplies he had an abundance of, thanks to suddenly friendlier caravan merchants passing through town, but the more homeopathic samplings the wasteland had to offer needed to be refreshed more often than the old man could manage on his own – but if her errand was a quick one, she’d come help dispose of the bloatfly corpses. The hulking insects fed on rot and weren’t quick to discriminate between fleshy offerings, so burning or burying were the only two – unpleasant – options for removal. Boone grunted his approval, and the survivalist went on her way with a smile and a wave, not unlike the Courier’s own friendly parting gesture.

Boone was just starting to pick up broken wings and molted carapaces, tossing them into a mound to be burnt, when he saw Sunny again, running up the road to the cemetery with a general air of urgency, and the sniper’s throat closed shut in fear, but when she drew closer, he could make out the smile that still sat solidly on her face. He squashed the excitement that threatened to bubble up in place of the fear, not wanting to be disappointed if her news wasn’t what he was waiting to hear.

“Boone!” she called out, waving at him. “Boone, your Courier is awake—“

He didn’t wait for her to finish, his heart suddenly pumping hard in his chest. He looked between her and his current task before tossing away the heavy corpse and taking off running back into town, stumbling twice before regaining his balance and leaving Sunny behind, her smile growing as the man shrank between buildings, blood pumping like drums in his ears.

“Alright, Cheyenne,” she said, clapping her hands together and turning around to face the insect massacre, “I guess this is our chore now!”

* * *

  
The door to Doc Mitchell’s house slammed open hard enough to shake the building on it’s foundation, the two inhabitants sharing a look as footfalls hammered down the hall, and the Doctor’s hand twitched towards his old laser pistol until Boone bounced a hip against the wall around the corner and blundered into the vigor tester. The sniper backed up a few paces to brace himself against the doorframe with his forearms on each side of the frame, panting with his beret askew, eyes wide behind his dark shades still surrounded by ugly green and yellow bruises, and he was dirty and covered in unmentionably vile muck below his knees. He froze and seemed to drink in the sight of the Courier.

The sun damage looked to be healing on her face, patches of dead, white skin flaking off in large sheets, and the rest of her skin was regaining some of it’s pallor. Dark hair was matted and tangled in large knots, hanging down her back as she sat, slightly hunched over a bottle of water, but her eyes were bright and aware as they swung around to focus on the man.

“Boone!” Her voice was rough and cracked weakly, but her smile was aglow. “Hey.”

The seconds ticked by as a muscle jumped and twitched in Boone’s cheek, but he was otherwise still. His lips were quivering slightly, and the Courier wondered what must’ve been running through his mind. For a few seconds, it looked as if a smile was creeping onto his face, but then his mouth thinned into a straight, hard line as splotches of red creeped onto his cheeks.

“Clarke,” he responded, low and husky, and something in his tone made the girl sit up a little straighter and her ears burn as his eyes bore into hers hotly, before he suddenly broke the connection to acknowledge the other man awkwardly. “Doctor,” he nodded respectfully as he stood independent from the wall to twist his hands up into the strap of his rifle. “I—I’ve gotta… There’s a thing I’m doin’ for Trudy,” he finished lamely before he turned around and was gone as quickly as he came, albeit much more quietly.

The Courier sat looking at the space the Boone had just vacated, flicking her eyes over to Doc Mitchell before back again. Out of all of her interactions with the gunman, that had been the most emotion she had seen out of him, bottled up and mustered down as it all was, and despite the awkward air that usually hung around them like a fart, this time is was pressingly uncomfortable.

“Well, that boy ain’t got a lick of charm with the folks, that’s for sure,” Doc Mitchell chuckled, well natured as he always was, gaining a weak laugh and a nod from the girl. “Comes across a bit ornery to folk, but I tell ya, ain’t it the darndest thing, I haven’t been near so busy since he came stumblin’ in few days ago. Geckos seem to be bitin’ less.”

Clarke turned fully toward the doctor and raised her eyebrow. “That stone of a man has been helping out, I take it?” She slowly flexed her wrapped hand, Med-X dulling the pain some, but the skin felt tight as it pulled underneath her bandages and little, vivid lines of blood appeared in the loose weave as the new flesh split. “How’d I end up back here, in Goodsprings, anyhow?”

The doctor patted the edge of her bed before retrieving a new bottle of water that he pushed into her hands as he settled back into his chair that creaked and complained every time he moved. He smiled as he spoke, “Far as I can tell, your friend there heard from someone that quality medical care could be found here in town,” he gave Clarke a fond look, “and he managed to steal you from Death’s door to bring you back. Came stumblin’ into town bout three days past, not too long after midnight. Had you tied to his back like a brahmin, near gave Easy Pete a heart attack.”

The Courier’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline as she took in the implications of Doc Mitchell’s words. Boone had been just as mangled as she in the blast, but he had still carried her near-dead body the long miles from Novac in an effort to save her life, and apparently had left quite the impression on the community. Question after question sprung up into her mind, most to the tune of _‘what the actual fuck had Boone been thinking?’_ He could have gotten both of them killed, the kind idiot. She flexed each finger again, wondering if she could still shoot a gun or hold her machete again after this blunder. She would be useless in her mission for answers if she couldn’t, and suddenly she was cursing her poor judgement. Right back where she had started, when she had made it. She had gotten where she needed to be, and she’d fucked it up. Back at the starting line, she’d thrown away a good hand.

A flame blazed in her belly, bright and angry, and resolve tightened the muscles in her shoulders. If it came down to it, she would hack off her useless limb and find a replacement, damnit.

_‘Benny, I’m going to shred that god fucking awful checkered suit off of your back and **murder** you with the gun you shot me with, motherfucker. I’m coming for you, and I’m not fucking scared this time.’_

Doc Mitchell must’ve seen something in her face, because his face became serious and he touched her naked left arm, which felt weightless without her Pip-Boy. “Hey now,” he trailed off. “Don’t be focusin’ on the bad, young lady. You’re a fighter, and that friend of yours is lookin’ like he’s gunna be a loyal one. That’s some sorta blessing out here in the wastes, I’d say.”

The Courier grunted out her accession but dug her knuckles into the mattress all the same and pushed herself to the side of the bed, pushing her weak legs off the mat with no small amount of agony from her injured arm despite the Med-X. The groan of pain that she breathed out escaped before she could stop in but she didn’t stop, even after the hard look she got from the doctor. “You gunna make me go another round with your old vigor tester, Doc?” she joked, and he shook his head and leaned back with a creak and a smile. “I’d really like to see Sunny Smiles and Trudy, only if _my doctor_ allows it, though.”

Stubborn enough to wander away from Death, the doctor didn’t think he’d be able to stop her if he tried, and he told her as much. The Courier took small, shaky steps to the bathroom, then over to her pack. The Vault 21 jumpsuit was in tatters, covered in blood and holes from shrapnel, barely recognizable as the suit that had been gifted to her, and she felt a bit sad for it, so she took her machete and awkwardly sawed out the back of the jumpsuit, a tattered square with the number ‘21’ on it. She shoved it into a little pocket that she had discovered early on, containing a little hand-hammered charm etched with the word ‘ _Hopeville_ ’, a blank postcard from New Reno, and a pretty rock, striped with reds and oranges that had ‘ _Utah_ ’ painted on it with turquoise ink. Places she had been, no doubt, and she assumed that she had been a nostalgic person before she was shot, and saw no reason to stop the habit now. She rifled through the pack again with another purpose; there had been another vault suit buried in the bottom on the bag, patched with leather and odd bits of metal. It had been squirreled away with the intention of using it to patch her other vault suit, but it would have to suffice; she had quickly bartered away the flimsy brahmin-skin bralette and leggings shiny with studs, along with the heavy, awkward metal contraption that Chet had explained was armor but the Courier still didn’t quite believe him. She hadn’t gotten around to tailoring the supple leather armor still shoved into the corner of the bag; when she had pulled it on she swam in it, tripping over the legs and unable to cinch the straps on the shoulders tight enough before they slid off of her.

So it was a surprise as she slipped into the armored Vault suit, recognizing the faded ‘13’ as the same that adorned her precious canteen, as it fit better than her previous one, strapping tight across her chest and hugging close to her skin comfortably. The doctor helped her carefully roll her sleeve so she could slip her arm into the fabric with as little contact as possible. He told her that it was healing fine, but she knew that she would be carrying the weight of more scars, and thanked the inclusion of gloves in the supplies that she carried. She strapped on her Pip-Boy and picked up the cowboy repeater leaning against the wall. “Them wildly Sarsaparilla bottles, sir,” she said in response to his concerned look, but it hadn’t evaporated by the time she meandered out the door.

The Courier felt naked without her pack strapped to her back, but she rolled her shoulders and focused on putting one weak foot in front of another. As far as she had gathered, she’d been out of sorts for over a week, twice as long as she’d been laid up in a coma after being shot in the skull, and Boone had managed to get her help before sepsis took all of her organs, almost killing her in the process. If he hadn’t taken that wild gamble, though, she would have died back in Novac, so she counted that move as pretty damn lucky.

  
Clarke caught sight of Sunny stalking between the Saloon and general store, a pinched look on her face that dissipated when the other woman waved a hand over her head excitedly. Sunny came trotting over with Cheyenne bounding ahead of her to snuff around the Courier’s feet, who nodded in the direction from which the duo came. “Everything okay, friend?”

Sunny waved a hand behind her in a dismissive gesture. “Your sniper up there didn’t take kindly to conversation just now, or help, so he can go stew,” she said with a laugh and Clarke felt a flush start creeping up her neck and burn at her ears. She shook her head.

“He’s not _my_ sniper,” she muttered awkwardly, burying the tip of her boot into the sand, kind of wishing it was her head. “After this stunt, I was surprised he didn’t shoot me himself, honestly.”

Sunny gave an unconvinced smirk and shrugged. “He didn’t seem to take exception to me callin’ you his Courier, so I just assumed…” The redhead waggled her eyebrows comically but the Courier didn’t crack a smile.

“I dragged my sorry ass out of my almost-death bed to shoot shit with you, not for you to be super fuckin’ weird. Weirdo,” Clarke whined, shaking the barrel of her gun for emphasis. The other young woman caught the rifle in her palm and gave it a once over.

“You’ve upgraded from the old varmint, didja?” She asked proudly, and the Courier looked very pleased at the shift in the conversation.

“Oh, this baby right here, she’s a beauty,” she preened, hefting the gun into both hands, clenching her teeth against the huff of pain that threaten to spill from her lips. “Lightweight, lever-action rifle, takes a standard .357 slug that I seem to have quite the abundance of, easy to oil and repair, too.”

Sunny reached out, “May I?” She asked, and Clarke handed it over, the older girl turning it in her hands with several appreciative coos. “Wanna set up some Sarsaparilla bottles so I can see how this baby shoots?”

The survivalist praised and raved about the rifle each time she took a shot, admiring the stock and polished handle. After a few clips, she handed it back to the Courier and arranged several more bottles on the posts for the other girl to pick off. Her muscles shook as she lifted it to her shoulder and curled her finger around the trigger, the skin pulling and tugging painfully. If Sunny noticed, she did say anything, even after the Courier knelt down to steady herself. When she took the shot, it went wide to the right and the gun kicked back into her shoulder with an explosion of pain, reminding her that she had dislocated it by reaching towards a fucking bomb. She fell back with a strangled cry onto her ass, forcing all of the air out of her lungs.

 _“Fuck!”_ She screamed in frustration, tossing the lever-action rifle to the side and curling around her arm and shoulder. Hot tears sprang into her eyes, but she squeezed them shut, refusing to cry. She felt Sunny’s hands on her back but she shrugged her off and climbed slowly to her feet.

“You don’t gotta push –” she started to say, but Clarke cut her off.

“ **No** ,” the word felt like a bullet coming from her lips. “I’ve _gotta_. Hand me your varmint rifle. Please,” she added, softening the word apologetically. Sunny tilted her own gun towards her, and Clarke turned back to the bottles. Her arms shook harder this time, and the barrel of the rifle twitched and bobbed as she breathed for several long minutes, attempting to steady herself. The first few shots pinged uselessly off of the brick of the Saloon, and one splintered a wooden post, causing the closest bottle to topple and plink sadly into the sand, but the recoil was minimal, keeping the wooden butt away from the bruised and battered girl.

She reloaded twice before she managed to shatter her first bottle, the little explosion sending a thrill down Clarke’s back, and her bright anger suddenly ebbed. Every time a bottle exploded in sparkling shards, she gave a hearty laugh, throwing her head back to the sky joyfully, and Sunny soon laughed along with her, sitting on her butt in the sand and leaning back on her hands to watch her friend.

Clarke reloaded again with a grin. _‘I’m fucking coming for you, Benny.’_

* * *

  
The air in the Saloon was humid and heavy when the two women sought shelter from the beaming heat of the sun soon after putrid smoke started to drift into town from the north. Boone clearing out bloatflies, Sunny explained, but kept her tone suspiciously neutral. Trudy was dusting out chipped mugs when they walked in, but she slammed both glass and rag down when the Courier came into view, her face a hard mask as she stomped around the bar. Clarke wanted to back away, but stayed rooted to the spot out of respect. She was certain Trudy was near about to slap her, or give her a tongue lashing that would make the Courier wish that she had, but she grabbed the girl by the shoulders instead and crushed her into a hug, wrapping one hand around the back of her head like a child and the other clutching the leather strapped around her torso. Clarke wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, not recalling sharing an embrace with another human in her lifetime, but the hug felt nice as she stood there with her arms by her sides.

When Trudy pulled away, her eyes were soft and shone wetly and her lips were turned down in a frown. “Don’t you come back into this town like that ever again, you hear? Not _ever_.”

The Courier nodded, looking down and away. “Yes’m.”

The tense atmosphere quickly evaporated after Trudy pushed Clarke into a chair and Sunny reached over the bar to snag a bottle of whiskey and a cloudy glass, helping herself to a generous two fingers. Trudy rolled her eyes and poured out two more shots into clean tumblers, sliding the more than half full glass into the Courier’s hands. Sunny raised her glass and the two other women followed suit.

“To the Courier, you know, _not_ dying,” she cried with a laugh before tossing back the whiskey. Clarke laughed along with her but Trudy just rolled her eyes. All three women slammed their empty glasses back onto the bar in unison, causing the constantly sleepy patron in the corner to jump and look around, startled. When he saw nothing amiss, he settled his head back into his arms and resumed his soft snoring.

Some things resisted change, the Courier mused, and wondered if she did as well.


	6. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! 
> 
> I apologize for the break, but the two week nap was needed. 
> 
> Update schedule WILL be changing within the next few weeks, so stay posted!

Pouring out more amber liquid into their glasses, Trudy’s face told Clarke that she had questions, and they weren’t the nice ones like, ‘ _how’ve you been_ ,’ or ‘ _see anything interesting out in the Wasteland this past month?_ ’ or ‘ _shot that motherfucker in that stupid suit in the face yet, girl?_ ’ Oh no, that Look that Trudy was leveling on the Courier said that she wanted to know what the fuck she’d done to herself, again, what sort of trouble she’d gone and stumbled into, and if it was likely to be following her back into Goodsprings. The look didn’t disappear when Sunny reached over the Courier’s shoulder to nab a glass, nor when the Courier took her own to shuffle between her hands, pushing it back and forth loudly against the bar. Trudy didn’t touch her own cup, she leaned against the counter with one hand, the other perched behind her on her hip, clearly waiting.

The Courier tilted her head a bit and took a leisurely sip of her whiskey, pretending to savor the burn. _Let her wait._

It was Sunny who startled her, with a slightly annoyed whine, from behind her left shoulder, “Well!?”

Clarke jumped a little with the glass still held to her lips before she set it back down on the counter, still quite full. “Well what, friend?” she asked, twisting her body towards the other young woman with feigned naivety. Sunny seemed more interested in the subject of Boone, which would have served the Courier much better if she actually knew anything about the sniper, other than ‘moody’, ‘good with a gun’, and ‘oh, by the way, his wife was sold to Legion slavers and I helped him murder the woman who sold her’. She assumed that moody and good with a gun were well known at this point, which left little else to discuss in polite company.

“I was thinkin’ you’d be by to visit us good folk, but not near dead again. What happened?” Sunny asked, and Clarke did well to keep the relief off of her face.

“Oh,” she responded flatly, voice neutral. She had little time to process what had happened, herself. All she knew was that she was so _angry_ that those people had died, maybe a little angry _at_ them. Good old Ranger Andy, lonely old Ranger Andy, who had been so kind to teach her a little about his NCR hand-to-hand training, had lost so many friends at that station; a little landmark nestled in the desert, barely worth the notation in her Pip-Boy, aside from ‘glorious indoor plumbing’ there was nothing remarkable about it, except that maybe it was isolated enough to be a good target for the damned Legion. She swirled her drink around in her glass. “Got asked to check up on Ranger Station Charlie, Boone and me. Gone dark a few days past, wasn’t more’n a hour’s trek from where we were, so we went to check her out. The Legion,” she squeezed her eyes tight against the memory of throwing her pack to the side as she rushed up to a still body to try to push the man onto his back, just before she was tossed back just as easily as she had tossed her bag, colliding with a concrete wall and her right arm exploding into pain as the body disintegrated into a chunky red mist. It all happened so fast, she had barely heard Boone’s voice, louder than she had ever heard him, before everything faded into a crimson blur. Clarke slammed her palm down onto the wooden top of the bar, eyes suddenly ablaze and angry. “You know what the Legion does to our dead? Rig ‘em up, traps to explode when people come to help. What kind of fucked up shit is that?”

Trudy’s lips sucked into her face, an unpleasant expression that made her mouth look like a puckered asshole, and Sunny looked a shade more grey than usual. Clarke emptied her glass and pushed it towards Trudy with a nod, who obligingly poured again. “Well, lookin’ like that young man wasn’t spinning a tale when he told me what had happened to you, girl. All the better for him, I’d say. Actually, I’d say it’d’a worked out a might bad for him if you told a different story, or if you didn’t wake up at all,” Trudy lifted her own glass to her mouth and raised an unkempt eyebrow in the Courier’s direction. The young woman got the feeling that Trudy was no small critic of the sniper.

The admittance took the young woman for a turn, though, and she cocked her head to the side slightly. “Thought you kind people didn’t take well to murderin’ your way around problems, ma’am.”

Sunny laughed under her breath, and Trudy shook her head. “An’ ‘ _unfortunate accident_ ’ of a perfect stranger ain’t nothin’ more than the Mojave sortin’ herself out.”

Clarke just clenched her injured hand and bit the inside of her cheek to stop the grimace. Trudy’s words echoed the ones that Johnson Nash had spoken to her weeks ago. “Yeah, the Mojave’d sort him out or something, that’s for certain.”

 _The Mojave sorted **me** out just fine, just like that other courier wanted, didn’t it_?


	7. Snakebite Tourniquet

The atmosphere that surrounded that pair was frigid and heavy. Boone had barely looked at her when she returned to Doc Mitchell’s house on the hill, as she leaned heavily on her long barreled repeater while her head swam and the stars spun around her, and the next day, while her head pounded and ached from the minor hangover, as well. At times, though, it seemed that as soon as the Courier looked at Boone, he was swinging his eyes away from her. The few times she did catch his eye, the lines around his mouth deepened into sharp shadows and his dry lips would thin out into a white slash across his face, an entirely unpleasant expression. She would curse herself under her breath and resume what she had been doing, albeit with an angry fervor fueled by rage towards herself.

 _‘Boone’s loyalty’, what a joke'_ , she thought to herself, mentally mocking the good Doctor. ' _The man saved my life out of some twisted sense of duty, and I ain’t convinced that he’s not gunna try to shoot me in the throat next time I fuck up.'_ Maybe she should have left him back in Novac, left him to his own mission, his own devices. It would be an awful shame if she had to add his name to her to-do list, but, she reasoned, she couldn’t very well kill one man who tried to murder her and let another go free, now could she?

Seven guns laid spread on the parlor floor between the two, being taken apart and cleaned. The Courier enjoyed watching Boone oil and polish his beloved rifle, disassembling the scope and stock with practiced ease, having seen him service his gun several times in the course of just a handful of weeks. She liked the way his fingers plucked gently away at the clips, the way the muscles of his forearms moved under his skin as he polished away any grit or sand, and was usually content to watch him quietly as she serviced her own weapons, clumsy and slow in comparison. This time the silence was pressing uncomfortably into her skin, making her hyper aware of the dry heat in the house, Doc Mitchell’s absence, the lingering feeling of illness in the pit of her stomach, every sharp intake of breath from Boone when she left the room to retrieve more water. It all quickly overwhelmed her, so she fiddled with her Pip-Boy until the New Vegas radio station came in over the static; she had given up listening to the radio station that came in crisp and clear throughout the entire Mojave weeks ago, tired of the same dozen or so tunes on repeat every couple of hours. Mr. New Vegas, on the other hand, was programmed with a smooth, attractive voice and a few helpings of songs to keep her from getting too bored. He supplied the travelers with mellow tunes that filtered through the house, and Boone looked bits and pieces less tense across from her, no longer so pointedly avoiding acknowledging her song after familiar song. It sure helped the Courier ignore him more organically.

The dulcet tones of ‘Johnny Guitar’ faded as Mr. New Vegas’s voice came back to the air, announcing the morning news. Clarke generally tuned out his words to appreciate his general tone, but as soon as he began to speak, she dropped her greasy cloth and cranked at the volume nob on her Pip-Boy as she listened, “A package courier found shot in the head near Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and has made a full recovery. Now _that’s_ what I call a delivery service you can count on.”

Boone’s eyes were round behind his shades, and his own hands had become very still. The Courier wanted to scream, or spit, or start throwing gun parts around the room, but she settled for muttering, “ _what the fuck,_ ” under her breath and slamming her 10mm pistol back together. If that motherfucker in the checkered coat didn’t already know she wasn’t dead, he was going to figure it out soon, and she’d be on the losing side of this game again. “ _Fuck fuck fuck_.” She needed to get back to New Vegas. She needed to stop fucking around.

“Clarke?” Boone asked, voice low in his chest as if she was a wild coyote, hackles raised and snarling. He didn’t sound much like he wanted to talk at all, and suddenly Clarke really didn’t care to speak either. She grabbed her machete and whet stone and refused to look at the sniper, trying to gather up her thoughts and formulate a plan, some sort of prayer to get her to Benny before he rabbitted off with his ill gotten prize, taking away any chance she had at finding some answers. She needed to get to New Vegas _today_ , not in four or five. She needed to go _north_ instead of fucking around the wasteland again.

The Courier thought of the map of the Mojave on her Pip-Boy with it’s meager smattering of little markers, showing her meandering path from Goodsprings to the gates of New Vegas, where she had been stupid enough to turn tail and run back to Novac. There was a narrow, cracked highway that went by the old gas station that ran north then east to connect to Interstate 15, far past Sloan and, she hoped, their Deathclaw problem. A day’s walk would get them to the city, instead of almost a week. _Fuck this ‘too dangerous’ shit. There isn’t a single place in the Mojave that isn’t dangerous._

“Clarke?” Boone asked again, a little louder. His teeth snapped against each other as he barked out the syllable, and the Courier curled her lip against the clear order in his rough voice.

Despite the urge to swing the butt of her machete into the side of his jaw to show him exactly what she thought of his command, she answered anyway, pressing her blade against the stone with a shriek from the metal, boring her eyes into Boone’s with all the anger and frustration she felt roiling in her belly. “ _North_ ,” she bit back. “I’m loading my pack and heading north, not stoppin’ ‘til I get to that _fucking_ city, not bopping around in a giant circle again.”

This time Boone leveled his eyes to meet Clarke’s stare, his look stoic and icy to her burning hot fury. “ _You_?”

The single syllable question spoke more than one would have assumed, but the Courier shrugged against the tide of guilt in an effort to undermine the ferocity of her prior statement. “You are, of course, welcome. As always, you can decide not to travel with me at any time.”

The sniper, seemingly satisfied with her answer, nodded and clicked the stock of his rifle back into place before unfolding himself from the floor and grabbing the Courier’s ragged pack.

“Then let’s go.”

* * *

The narrow road was in much better condition than the ones that the Courier had become accustomed to while traveling the highways that saw heavy traffic from town to town, cracked and pitted every couple hundred of yards from the years and landslides the shifted the earth underneath the concrete. Huge stretches of the Long 15 were laid to waste, swaths of asphalt completely gone with only a beaten path to connect flat islands of concrete, but I-15 also didn’t have an ominous ‘ _KEEP OUT_ ’ sign perched right next to the road just outside of town. Bent and twisted stop signs accompanied the huge notice, and the two travelers exchanged a glance, but that didn’t stop Clarke from eating up the distance between herself and the signposts after only a moment. As she had said prior, Boone could walk away from all of this whenever he wanted, so she didn’t bother to linger to see if he still had her back – this was what she was doing, Boone or no.

Besides, he had had plenty of time to graciously bow out this time, when they had gone to announce their departure from the town. Both Doctor and Mayor had several things to say about the dangers the two were about to run right back into, objections and insistences upon staying longer in the sleepy town, and Sunny Smiles shook her head and begged the two to heed her warnings of new, deadly predators that had started to invade the Mojave from the mountains and unpredictable pockets of raiders that patrolled the less traveled roads to the north.

The sniper had stood there, a silent stone behind her, while she waved off their concerns and jingled several handfuls of caps out of her purse to thrust into a pile on the bar between the three citizens. They had tried to argue over that, as well, but Clarke finally convinced them that the town could use the resources, and not to begrudge her proper gratitude. A couple of caps in exchange for saving her life twice was quite the small price to pay, in Clarke’s mind, and Boone had followed her out the door after a solid handshake from Doc Mitchell and a familiar wave from Sunny. Even Trudy had spared Boone an approving nod, who had returned it, resentful respect clear in the interaction.

Not twenty meters ahead of the signs there were more, and little barricade of dirt and rocks that made a hill in the middle of the road, which Clarke scrambled up to survey her surroundings. Before them laid the same narrow, cracked highway, nestled deep in a gully with sides far too steep for either of the travelers to climb for a better vantage point, and the little chasm turned and twisted a while before disappearing from view. She unsheathed her machete and turned to Boone with a nod, who unholstered his rifle. Going was slow from there on, Clarke taking point and creeping as close to the outside curves of the ragged street to maximize her perspective. The hours inched on, and soon the sun was beaming hard on her covered head, making her itch and sweat in the late afternoon sun. The once comfortable Vault Suit soon clung under her arms and between her legs wetly, and she was sure Boone was just as uncomfortable, having traded in his usual white tee for a canvas button down to protect his damaged skin and keep his bandages dust free, and a quick glance back confirmed it, his collar and far down his chest was soaked as she was.

‘ _Not so much a stone, now are you, Sniper?_ ’ she thought with some sick glee adding more pep to her step. Before long, the gully finally opened to reveal the rolling hills of the lower mountains, and on the horizon was New Vegas, seemingly close enough to touch, and Clarke realized the progress they had made in such a few short hours since early morning. She resolved to stop soon; it was creeping on a little past noon, and felt that some sort of celebration was in order for their hard walking, even if it was only to stand still while chewing on the huge chunks of lizard jerky and bruised crunchy mutfruit she had stuffed into her pack from Doc Mitchell’s kitchen.

The lower mountains had little cover from the already brutal sun, leaving Clarke jealous of Boone’s heavy shades that he constantly wore. She resolved to loot a pair at her earliest convenience, wondering where she would have to end up before finding something intact. She had found that she had a knack for ‘prospecting’, a lucrative and relatively nonfatal career, and had the caps to prove it, but she hadn’t really thought of adding to her collection of belongings, figuring that pre-catastrophic head injury Courier had everything that post-catastrophic head injury Courier would need. Maybe her eyesight had been effected by the whole bullet to the brain thing.

“ _Clarke,_ ” she heard Boone hiss out in a clear warning, and she quickly dropped to one knee and froze, squinting her eyes. The sniper shifted up to her side and motioned down the highway, towards a little plat with a charred circle in the middle, surrounded on three sides by steep cliff faces. On the northernmost incline, Clarke finally noticed the half dozen or so huge figures through the glare of the early afternoon light, and she watched them, holding her breath, waiting to see if they had noticed the two travelers, minutes passing before she realized that they were still, save for the fluttering of feathers and fabric in the sparse Mojave breeze. She glanced at Boone, confused.

The sniper wasn’t looking at the hazy figures in the distance, though. His eyes were darting around, head bobbing and weaving like a bird’s as he took stock of their surroundings as he crept forward on the balls of his feet, balanced precariously around his rifle and shuffling forward in an awkward ball of limbs. Clarke would have laughed under different circumstances, but she just watched with bated breath, anxiety filling her chest and creeping up the back of her throat as her grip on her machete became shakier and shakier, completely unaccustomed to the tense silence that seemed to be a precursor to some sort of altercation. Bum rushing her opponents had worked relatively well for her in the past, and she hadn’t even considered that she might be able to sneak up on unsuspecting baddies – something she’d do well to take into consideration in the future, maybe.

Minutes passed before Boone stood slowly, unfolding himself from around his gun, apparently satisfied with their surroundings. Clarke stayed rooted where she was, close to the ground, and flexed her bandaged hand, antsy. “We clear?” she stage whispered.

“Looks like it,” Boone responded, kicking his way to the messy fire pit, sticking the toe of his boot into the charred earth. “It’s cold.”

The Courier got to her feet, back and knees protesting at the movement after being still for those long minutes while her heart pounded in her chest, and meandered over to the closest figure, wrinkling her nose as she examined the gruesome effigy. It towered several feet over her head, sticks and poles wrapped together to form arms that pointed up to the sky, and a brahmin skull grinned down at her, perched in between the arms like a head, bones surrounding it like a terrible halo. It was draped in chains with a hubcap on it’s front, and Clarke stepped around to it’s side for a better look, only to come face to face with a human skull, polished to a shine in the Mojave sun.

“ _Whatthefuck_ ,” she muttered under her breath, reaching out to touch the purple fabric draped around the statue’s shoulders that sat bunched around the skull, surprised to see an intricate batiked pattern dyed into the folds, a very beautiful addition to the otherwise horrific decoration. What the fuck, indeed.

“It’s a Great Khan war totem,” Boone’s voice was so close to her ear, she jumped and stumbled face first into the skull’s grin, cracking her head against it’s teeth before she jerked back and tripped right into Boone’s sweat damp chest. He steadied her with one hand on her upper arm before stepping back several feet with a mumbled apology, face shades more red than it had just been. Clarke shook off the startle; she was surprised that she hadn’t noticed the sniper creeping up behind her through the loose gravel, surprised at Boone’s proximity.

“A what?” she asked, turning around to face her companion, touching her forehead gingerly. Her fingertips came away slightly pink and she rolled her eyes. Everything in the Mojave had teeth, it seemed.

“A Great Khan war totem,” Boone repeated, looking over her shoulder as he answered her. “I don’t know what it’s for.”

The Courier nodded her acknowledgement and slid her pack off of her shoulders to rummage through one handed, keeping her grip tight on her machete as she grabbed clumsily for the kerchief filled with mutfruit. She shoved a leather of jerky into her mouth and tossed a length to Boone, chewing absentmindedly as she meandered over to a bullet pocked sign that labeled the road as Nevada 160. Clarke brought up her Pip-Boy and placed a marker where the global positioning had her standing on the map. “What would you call this place, then? Creepy Abandoned Great Khan Fire Pit?”

Boone turned to her with an unamused look as he raised his eyebrow, and she wondered if he realized that she was being deliberately obtuse. Humor was, for the most part, lost on the stony sniper it seemed. “It’s a camp.”

Clarke plucked at the nobs and buttons on her Pip-Boy, speaking as she typed. “Alright, alright, how does Makeshift Great Khan Camp sound?”

“Less stupid,” was Boone’s answer, and the Courier responded with a loud laugh; she didn’t care if the levity was intentional or not, the pregnant atmosphere from that morning had almost completely evaporated, leaving behind the familiar feeling of awkward companionship that she had come to appreciate from him. She crouched down next to the moldy bedroll, briefly considering plopping her sore ass down onto the mat before thinking better of it. The Vault Suit she was wearing only had a little bit of blood crusted around the cuffs and the dirt on the knees and elbows hadn’t been ground into the fabric yet, leaving the suit looking crisp, by Mojave standards, at least, and she wanted to try to preserve that for as long as possible.  
She tossed more things at Boone, each throw going a little wider to the right than the last to force him to react quickly on his feet, reaching out or jumping up to catch the mutfruit or the bottle of dirty water out of the air before it splattered onto the concrete. The sniper was quite the physical specimen, strong and agile, so the Courier didn’t feel the least bit bad keeping him on his toes with a quick ‘hey catch’ before flinging something in his general direction.

At first Clarke didn’t really notice the sound, more focused on her companion, mistaking it for the quiet breeze of the Mojave, until she heard the fluttering, which she dismissed out of hand as carrion birds flying overhead. It wasn’t until Boone dropped his bottle into the hard packed sand, water flying in a shimmery arc around their feet and readied his rifle with a panicked expression on his face did she turn around. Sunlight beamed off of several sets of bright amber wings, glaring into the Courier’s eyes painfully, but she did see the hulking insects that hung between those wings, easily five times bigger than a bloatfly and much more menacing. In the center of the swarm was the biggest of the bugs, twice as large as it’s companions, wings flapping like a heavy flag. They were spiked and gleamed blue in the sun, and bloody red eyes twisted around in sockets to find their prey. She couldn’t count them as they bobbed and weaved sporadically, but Boone’s rifle cracked once, then twice. The big bug’s right wing was ripped into shreds by the first bullet, and the second buried itself into it’s thorax, but it just dropped to the sand and started skittering towards the pair.

Boone squeezed his trigger again and then looked back at the Courier, who was frozen by her pack. His face twisted into a snarl, full of fear. “Run!” He screamed, voice cracking. Remembering Ranger Station Charlie, Clarke sprang into action to obey, throwing her bag onto her back and leaping over the old fire pit to run past the Great Khan totems, scrambling up the cliff face. She threw her machete up onto a ledge and whirled around with her cowboy repeater already in her hands, screaming out a ‘ _fuck!!_ ’ when she saw what Boone was doing.

He was calmly walking backwards, back up the highway the way they had come, popping off shot after shot at the swarm of monsters that was quickly bearing down on him. One reared back and rushed Boone with it’s abdomen pointed right at him, tipped with an angry looking barb, but the sniper managed to shoot the demon down before the stinger could connect.

Another swept up his side and he responded with a two handed shove on the barrel of his rifle, throwing the bug to the concrete and stomping down on it’s thorax, where it lay still save for the weak fluttering of broken wings. Clarke looked down her sight, trying to take aim, but the flying insects were fast, weaving around each other in desperate attempts to attack the man, who kept his calm walk backwards as he reloaded his gun.

The Courier managed to pop a few rounds out of her repeater, two of the bullets connecting to one of the smaller creatures, thinning the herd rushing towards the sniper. “Run, Boone, goddamnit!!” she hollered as bullet casings pinged out of her repeater, throwing the butt of the gun deep into her injured shoulder, but the adrenaline pumping hard through her body made the connection seem dull and pillowed. Two more of the insects fell to the ground, leaving three swarming the man and the monstrous one still skittering across the sand in a wide circle, but Boone seemed to be ignoring her, still taking steady steps backwards, his brow furrowed deep in concentration and eyes never straying from his targets. So focused on drawing the swarm away from Clarke, he didn’t seem to notice a fifth winged mutation flitting it’s way through the rocks twenty yards behind him, much smaller than it’s brethren.

Much faster, too.

“Behind you!”

* * *

It hit like a punch when it barreled into him, a solid thud connecting with his shoulder and pulling tight the muscles in his neck, and Boone thought that he hand managed to avoid the venomous spike until the young cazador wrapped it’s blue body around his arm tightly. He felt the skin and muscle split open underneath the fat stinger as it jabbed straight into the meat above his elbow, then the horrific icy burn of poison that followed. He screamed in pain and doubled over, dropping his rifle to bat fruitlessly at the cazador with his fist, then grabbed the thing from the back of it’s carapace, sharp spikes piercing their way into the fleshy parts of his hand, pulling frantically as it’s legs dug into the fabric of his shirt, tearing it off of himself and smashing it down underneath his knee.

Out of his periphery he could see Clarke closing the distance between them with huge leaps across the rocks and he would have hollered for her to run again if he wasn’t clenching his teeth and huffing out short breaths, just trying to breathe, his entire arm on fire, but she had her 10mm in her hand instead of her machete. The shots popped off the wings of the closest cazador and splattered another, then she flipped the gun over in her hand and brought in crashing down on the third mutated insect, bouncing it off of the pavement and crushing it’s thorax beneath her boot while she cocked her gun back and emptied her clip into the mature cazador, splattering it’s yellow guts across the concrete. Boone would have been amazed if he hadn’t been rolling on the highway with his left arm clutched between his knees, blood running freely between his fingers where he had torn the wide spike out of his flesh.

The world blurred around Boone as a contraction of pain hit him like a shotgun blast to the gut, giving Clarke an auburn halo around her face as she grabbed fistfuls of shirt around his shoulders and started dragging him across the pavement and into the sand, rolling the sniper onto his back. She tried to pry his hand away from the puncture, but his muscles had seized and formed claws out of his fingers that, no matter how hard he willed, wouldn’t uncurl. Boone had heard of soldiers encountering cazadores in the wasteland, half an outfit or more decimated by swarms of the beasts, the brutal, lingering toxin that wracked the body with pain and seizures and how blood would pour from the nose, then the eyes, and then the ears as the body turned to liquid from the inside. He swore he could already smell his flesh cooking away, and he rocked his head to the side as a bit of bloody foam flew from his lips when he gagged.

“Fucking _let go_ Boone, _fuck_!” Clarke screamed hoarsely, pounding her bandaged hand hard into the crook of his right shoulder, directly into the soft tissue where it connected to the muscle underneath his collarbone, driving his already sparse breath out of his chest. His hand flew free in the spasm and the Courier wrestled it underneath a knee as she ripped open the sleeve of his canvas button-down, only to rear back with a curse. “Fuckers are venomous, aren’t they?” She slapped Boone when he only answered with a moan, her face fierce and wild. “ _Aren’t they_?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Boone cried, finding his voice. Clarke swore again and scrambled up and over to her pack, ripping through it before running back to his side; her hands were shaking as they ripped the shoulder of his shirt away and tied some surgical tubing around his arm above the sting, the tube biting painfully into his flesh. She shook mutfruit out of the handkerchief in her hand and filled it with buffalo gourd seeds, twisting it up and then standing, dropping it to the ground before unceremoniously stomping down onto it with her heel several times. When she opened the fabric, the seeds had formed a gritty dust and she grabbed Boone’s arm, who tried to wretch it away. “What are you –”

“I don’t know!” she yelled, grabbing at Boone’s arm again. This time she pinned Boone’s injured arm under her knee, and with a barely audible, “ _sorry man_ ,” she pried open the already gaping wound and shoved the powder deep into the muscle, grinding it underneath his flesh with a dirty thumb. The sniper screamed and bucked upwards, but the Courier clamped her hand down over the puncture and squeezed, sealing it with her palm. Boone twisted weakly and let out a pained sob; death was one thing, a painful death was an entirely different beast altogether, and the Courier was apparently helping him along, causing another, more sour pain to blossom in his belly, the feeling of delirious betrayal.

Several seconds stretched on, punctuated by Clarke’s huffing breath and Boone’s moans, while the sniper waited for more waves of crippling pain to wash over him. Ten seconds turned into thirty, then sixty, then Clarke’s rigid grip on his upper arms loosened and she lifted her knee off of Boone’s crushed palm. Blood was pulsing it’s sluggish way down his arm, much slower than before, and the radiating pain was starting to consolidate and centralize to where he had nearly been penetrated down to the bone, and he found that his mouth was simply bloody from where he had bitten down on his tongue in agony. Boone moved the swollen muscle around to poke at his lips, feeling ragged but alive, and Clarke was gently lifting his arm and untying the surgical tubing.

There was a capability in the Courier that he had never seen in Carla, who never lacked in tenacity, certainly, but blood panicked her, confrontation made her shake, she would close her eyes and turn away from splinters and cuts, delicate lips turning down and perfectly trimmed eyebrows drawing up into a line of concern. The Courier’s thick, unkempt eyebrows were drawn down over her eyes, giving her an intense glare of concentration as she wiped at Boone’s torn and bloody skin with the arm of his shirt, unflinching and practiced. In fact, she was so different from Carla that Boone was starting to really wonder why he ever sought to compare the two; Carla had been like a thorny desert flower, beautiful and sharp, but Clarke, she was a different thing entirely, she was the Colorado, wide and vast with untold depths, or the Mojave herself, with secrets and dangers. Clarke wasn’t beautiful, she was terrifying, and Boone hated to find that he enjoyed it, being led by the winds of Hurricane Clarke.

The sniper let his head fall back, jostling his beret, and sucked in a deep breath when the Courier probed at the edges of his wound, sealing the flesh together tightly around the grit that Boone could feel grinding together underneath his skin. “ _Certainly not Carla_ ,” Boone mumbled quietly, but the Courier’s hands faltered for a moment before she resumed her steady ministrations, sparing Boone a long, mournful look with her expressive eyes. Those looks, from underneath her long, light lashes, had made Boone’s belly squirm since the first night they met, but this time it made him want to wriggle away from her, or maybe closer, he wasn’t quite sure. The Courier took the choice from him when she grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled his shoulder up onto her knee awkwardly.

Clarke gave a sigh and shook her head. “No, no I’m not, Boone. I’m sorry,” she said, and she absolutely did sound sorry, but Boone just wanted to laugh deliriously as she apologized for her existence while she wrapped gauze around his arm to staunch the flow of blood that was still leaking from his arm.

“I’m not,” the sniper responded truthfully, guilt creeping down through his belly to make his knees hurt, but all he could really think was how badly the prior ten minutes would have gone had he had Carla at his side instead of Clarke. The Courier curled one corner of her dry lips into her cheek and raised one eyebrow in an expression of obvious bemusement, and though she didn’t say anything, Boone could almost hear her saying, “ _Yeah fucking right man,_ ” as she stuck a finger behind his ear.

“No fever,” she said instead, and pushed Boone off of her lap none too gently, getting up and grab his uninjured arm to haul him to his feet. She was much too short to offer any sort of real support for him, but he put his hand on her shoulder to lean against her heavily, feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood and vaguely appreciating the strength of his small companion; underneath the fabric of her suit her body was sinewy and muscled, if a bit gaunt, and her small stature belied her brawn. While Boone was being honest with himself, he decided that he may as well admit that he liked the way she looked in her new Vault Suit, too. The one she had worn prior was baggy and big, and he couldn’t understand why she had bothered with it at all. This one, though, seemed to have been tailored to her, it didn’t hang off of her frame and made her look less like a child dress in adult clothing, it showed that she had a trim waist and a little swell to her chest that he hadn’t noticed before. At Doc Mitchell’s house, he had struggled to keep his eyes off of her every time she left the room, but had begged it off quickly; it had been a long time since Carla died, and Boone hadn’t crossed paths with a new face, especially one as comely as the Courier’s, in almost as long. It was all ghouls and fiends and Jeanie May Crawford and Manny Vargas for the last two years, and despite how Clarke teased him, he wasn’t made of stone.

The sniper was wretched from his thoughts when the Courier pushed off of his waist with one hand and collected her pack. He bent down slowly and grabbed his rifle from the ground, and she came back to his side and titled her head at him. “You good?” she asked, reaching out to push the open sleeve of his shirt away from his chest a bit, examining the bandages he had gotten from Ada Strauss.

“Yeah,” Boone answered, grabbing her hand then pushing it away awkwardly. He disliked how agreeable he was to the contact. A long time, indeed. Underneath the cliff face of the plateau, he pointed out the wood-pulp hives that must’ve housed the cazadores, and the Courier narrowed her eyes as if she was searching her mind for any information that may have lingered in her brain concerning the creatures, but then shook her head. Boone wondered what kind of hidden knowledge she had that she didn’t realize she possessed. “How did you know what to do? About the poison?”

She shrugged her shoulders and hooked her thumbs through the straps of her pack, and when she spoke, she had a whine in her voice. “Oh man, c’mon, I don’t know why I do half the shit I do. It worked, didn’t it?”

Boone gave her a long look, but just looked away and wrinkled his nose after a moment. There was certainly no guesswork in what she had done. No, it was no guess. Just like she was no Courier.


	8. Arcade Gannon, Lady Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter eight, a day early! I finished this one rather quickly, so I've been sitting on it for days, so this is a gift _from me, to you._

Craig Boone was no fan of Arcade Gannon. The handsome doctor’s smile was too charming, his hair much too nicely coiffed, his fingernails clean and white, but none of that stopped his shoulders from being broad and his waist slender, his jaw smooth and angled. He spoke so easily to the Courier, too, intellectual conversation that left Boone struggling to understand exactly what they were talking about. His dislike for Arcade only rose steadily when the Courier left Boone in the care of the Followers of the Apocalypse to wander Freeside with a man that wasn’t him. While the woman could certainly handle herself, out in the Wasteland as well as in Freeside, he wondered how much of a liability the doctor would be while Clarke went off to find trouble, and find trouble she would.

They had stumbled up to Freeside’s East Gate a few hours after the sun had settled low in the sky, dusk turning into twilight, Boone still leaking blood down his arm and Clarke covered from shoulder to ankle in the splatter. The sniper had started to lean on her gingerly in the late afternoon, but by the time the miles were behind them, the Courier was pulling and tugging on her grey faced companion and lifting him up from under his shoulder every time his feet caught and turned on the rocks underfoot. When she shook him to ask where to find a doctor, he slurred when he told her of the Followers, and he could feel the sluggish pump of blood in his ears that tempted him to close his eyes while still on his feet, but Clarke noticed and slapped him sharply in his stomach, warning him to stay awake lest she kill him herself.

Not five minutes had passed in Freeside before two mangy men walked up to the pair, one with skin hanging so loosely off of his frame that Boone could see the bones in his wrist and up the arm that was casually wrapped around a flimsy pool-stick, and the other man’s face was covered with scars, scabs, and a few open wounds that looked wet and yellow that beaded out a little moisture as he held out what looked to be an old kitchen knife and demanded that Clarke hand over her pack and purse. The Courier had attempted to barter, ten caps for safe passage, but the two weren’t to be swayed; they wanted the pack and all her caps, and maybe the clothes off of her back for good measure. Boone had started to chuckle deliriously, only to get louder when Clarke snapped at him to shut up, then louder still after the emaciated man made a grab for the girl’s arm. She reacted by pushing off of Boone with one hand to leap into the air, knocking the sniper over and bringing her undamaged fist straight down onto the junkie’s head with such force that the sniper could hear the distinct smack of bone against bone from where he had landed on the pavement, and it was no surprise when the man crumpled to the ground in an unconscious heap. The other junkie wisely decided against pressing the issue and turned tail to scurry off into a dark alleyway, abandoning his friend.

“ _Don’t have the_ time,” she had groused under her breath when she bent down and grabbed Boone’s arm to haul him back to his feet, absentmindedly rubbing her forehead where she had torn open a little scab that started dripping blood into her eyebrow. She followed Boone’s clumsy direction to the Old Mormon Fort, and when the duo entered the courtyard, dirty and bleeding, more than one doctor came running. The sniper was whisked away from his companion and immediately deposited onto a makeshift gurney where the rest of his ragged shirt was cut away along with his bandages which were sopping with clammy blood. These doctors were kind enough to inject him with Med-X before sticking their fingers underneath his skin and poking him full of holes before they found a vein that didn’t collapse on top of the needle for the blood packs they hung over his bed like gruesome ornaments that shimmered in the low light. Boone’s dopey delirium didn’t subside until he had woken up the next morning from drugged dreams, mouth feeling full of cotton and in enough pain to make him grunt against his clenched teeth.

It was Arcade Gannon, followed by the Courier, who came to shuffle a couple of pressed powder pills into his hand with an offered bottle of water, but Boone glared at the water in response and crunched the bitter medicine between his molars when he saw the way Clarke was looking at the doctor; her eyes were wide and appreciative, and her smile had a deferential note to it that was completely alien on her familiar face. Boone was quite certain that she had never looked at _him_ in that way, and he wrestled down the green feeling of jealousy that threatened to overtake his stomach, which left him feeling like he was fending off an intense bout of indigestion – what business was it of his, really, he reasoned with himself – but something must have shown on his face because when the handsome doctor excused himself, the Courier lingered behind to kneel down next to Boone’s beside. She reached out to touch his fingers and the sniper turned his palm up to catch her hand in his, and the smile she beamed at him looked nothing like the one she had been giving the other man, warm and friendly instead of shy, eyes turning into little half moons on her cheeks as she bared her teeth playfully. Boone liked the smile she gave him better, he decided, familiar and comfortable, and when she explained that she was off to wander Freeside with _‘Arcade’_ , looking for junkies and alcoholics, Boone firmly placed his distaste for the plan squarely on the doctor’s shoulders instead of hers, despite the glaring fact that it was quite obviously _her_ idea.  


“ _Let’s go wander the ghetto with a pretty blond scientist and convince a bunch of junkies to clean up and oh by the way I’ll just try to set up some trade agreements while I’m at it so I can just try to fuckin’ **save everybody**_!” Boone mocked in a falsetto after Clarke had given his hand a squeeze then waved her cheerful goodbye, just able to glare hotly at Arcade out the flap of his tent as he spoke to a ghoul near the huge wooden barricade of a door and holstered a laser pistol underneath his starched white lab coat, the Courier shuffling up between the two much taller figures. She said something and the doctor looked up and right at Boone. His face started to pinch up before settling into a bored expression, and when they left, he didn’t spare another glance at the sniper.

* * *

“I don’t think your friend likes me very much,” Arcade huffed as he pressed open the busted rail car’s double door with his elbow, letting the Courier duck underneath his arm before he twisted past after her, letting the mechanism snap shut behind him and pointing down the street past the Atomic Wrangler. “Old Bill Ronte usually spends his days squatting near the Wrangler.”

The Courier nodded and then gave a limp half-shrug. Arcade quite liked the girl; she was smart enough, that was certain, and well-read, but mostly the scientist just found it fascinating that she had managed to survive such head trauma without seeming any worse for wear apart from memory loss, which could resolve itself, or never. Physical neurological trauma manifested differently in everyone, but it seemed that she had managed to avoid secondary pathogenesis, which was a rare sight in the wasteland, and made her a reasonable candidate for full rehabilitation, in Arcade’s opinion, but he certainly wasn’t an authority on the subject.

Julie had been immediately taken with her good-natured personality and eagerness to help the Followers with their miscellaneous troubles, and after dragging the limp body of her hemorrhaging companion through their doors, she had shoved her hands into a purse strapped to her leg and pressed caps into the head doctor’s palms, holding back tears. “ _Help him, please_ ,” she had pleaded, oblivious to her own injuries that needed obvious rebandaging. They had helped her, and she apparently resolved to return whatever favors they had bestowed upon her, but the surly, hard faced NCR citizen that she called her friend was not quite so friendly.

“Oh, Boone, I don’t think Boone likes anybody, really,” she responded with a chuckle as she waved cheerfully to the Atomic Wrangler crier, earning a confused wave in return from the leather clad woman.

Arcade made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Boone hadn’t made any sort of effort to hide his obvious distaste for the other man, and it didn’t exactly take any mental gymnastics to figure out why. Arcade had seen the soft look on the man’s face that had bloomed the moment the Courier had reached for his hand and started to speak to him softly, and the way he gently tangled their fingers together for a few seconds before pulling away self consciously. “He likes _you_ ,” Arcade countered, and the Courier twisted her lips up into a contemplative smile before sticking out her bottom lip and giving an awkward, head bobbing nod.

“Yeah, you’re right, actually. I think we might _actually_ be friends now,” she said with a slightly manic edge to her voice. “It only took me almost getting us killed twice in a row for it to happen!”

“What.”

* * *

Boone was overwhelmingly pleased to see Arcade return at dusk, dirty and ruffled, parts of his hair slicked against his head with sweat and what looked to be a dried smear of blood down the front of his wrinkled lab coat while Clarke moseyed around him and made a beeline for the sniper, looking no worse for wear than she had that morning when she had said goodbye to him. The ghoul guard, Beatrice, had pulled up an extra chair to her table when he had rolled himself up and off of the shaky gurney and meandered into the courtyard, rubbing his bare head in frustration, and Julie’s smile was an understanding one when she handed over his beret and he snatched it out of her hand to shove it back onto his head where it belonged. Boone sat back and watched the guards play hands of caravan for a handful of hours, sipping water and chewing on maize chips, waiting for the Courier to return from her errand, and when she bumped her hip against his shoulder, he hid his smile behind the mouth of his bottle.

“Guess who just took care of a big, bad drug dealer?” she boasted, thrusting one thumb into her chest and winking at the seated man.

“Can’t imagine,” Boone responded drily, rolling his eyes and shrugging her hip off of his arm. The pleasure he felt from the easy contact was far outweighed by the uneasy feeling of several eyes resting on the pair, but he immediately regretted the action when she took a few steps to stand closer to the blond doctor, who’s bored expression didn’t change save for raising his eyebrow slightly when he flicked his eyes over to Boone, in what almost felt like a challenge.

“It’s true,” Arcade affirmed, “she very cleverly convinced a local menace to stop supplying hyper-addictive drugs to NCR citizens. She’s proven to be quite an asset to the Followers of the Apocalypse and Freeside.”

The sniper narrowed his eyes, but he bit his tongue. ‘ _She’s not an_ asset, _you ass_ ,’ he thought to himself, but he was saved from having to respond by the Courier interjecting. “I spoke to Mick and Ralph about setting up a supply line, but they don’t have the resources for anything large scale like we need. Ralph mentioned something about speaking to the owners of the Atomic Wrangler, but I figured I’d wait ‘til you were back on your feet for that one, Boone,” she explained, and the sniper felt something warm unfurl in the pit of his belly unexpectedly. The Courier didn’t seem to have plans to leave Boone for another man, after all, and he ran his tongue over his teeth to disguise another pleased smile. Clarke continued on, “I’d sure like to take a look see at the Strip as soon as possible, though.”

“I’ll have your six,” Boone replied, and he surprised himself with how throaty he suddenly sounded. Clarke must have caught something in his voice as well because she looked up and away, a blush creeping up the sides of her neck and she started to fiddle with a tangled tuft of hair that was sticking out from under her hat. The sniper caught Arcade looking between the two travelers, but he kept his focus on the Courier, pointedly ignoring the doctor’s presence beside her until she mumbled something about food and Julie and wandered off to the stone tower the housed the head physician. Arcade loitered near the flagpole for several more minutes, looking as if he wanted to say more to the sniper, or maybe ask some questions, but after a well place glare, his conversational body language morphed back into the bored look he had on prior, and that suited Boone well enough.

No longer in need of medical care, the man was given a cot in a different tent for the night, two sets of bunks crammed into the tiny space, reminiscent of military accommodations, and he climbed into bed just after the sun had set completely with every intention of sleeping immediately instead of lying awake for several hours, staring at the dirty underside of the bed above him. He found himself twisting around to glance outside of the tent, trying to catch sight of the Courier every time his eyelids felt heavy enough to start drifting close, though. She hadn’t been in the tent that morning when he had roused himself from his drugged stupor, but he hadn’t entertained the idea that she might have spent the night elsewhere. It seemed _wrong_ , somehow, that after several weeks of sleeping on hard packed sand and dirt, behind ruined walls that offered little protection or under rusted sheets of metal together, trading off watch until dawn, she would find other nighttime lodging, away from him.

Boone hated the emotions running through his head; for years he was content with effervescent grief as his constant companion, but Clarke’s presence in his life when he was busy simply existing had turned everything sideways. Sleep was no longer marked by hours of lying straight on his back with tears leaking lazily down his temples to gather in his ears and on his mattress, every night when Clarke took first watch, he rolled over and sleep usually claimed him quickly after the day in the grueling Mojave heat coupled with their unforgiving pace – except for those few nights when he found himself listening to Clarke breathe and shuffle behind him, replaying images of her hair whipping around her face as she cleaved through Legionnaires with her notched machete and how it made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Boone just didn’t have time for grief these days, it seemed. It was pushed aside by pride, anxiety, sometimes anger, this past day featured jealousy, and he swore he felt a niggling of happiness a couple of times while he was around his traveling companion. Life was beginning to lose it’s bleak edge, and he wondered what that spelled for his future; this time, he didn’t bother pushing away the guilt that started to eat away at him that came with the realization that he was starting to live a life without Carla.

Boone thought he closed his eyes just for a moment, but he must have fallen asleep because when he opened them again, Clarke’s back was pressed up against the metal pole that held together the bunks, head tilted to the side to rest on the thin mattress and snoring softly. It looked as if she had probably drifted off while fiddling with her Pip-Boy – her fingers were resting against the knobs on the side and her arm was in her lap. The lights and the bustle told Boone that it wasn’t late, the gamblers and drunks with nowhere to go were just starting to filter in and fill up beds, but the rest of the cots in his tent still laid empty. They were very alone, and she was very close, close enough that he could touch her if he wanted, steal those few lingering looks that he was starting to crave but didn’t care to cast when others could observe, but when he reached out, his usually steady hand was shaking.

‘ _About to add thief to your resume_?’ he asked himself, and curled his hand into a fist, shaking his head at himself. When he reached out a second time, a single finger dimpled into her cheek, rocking her head off of the mat as she jerked awake and twisted around to look at him with sleepy eyes. He pointed lazily at the bunk across the way, and she gave him a smile before climbing into the bed, curling over onto her side and falling back asleep quickly. Boone watched her until the old fort settled into silence, then counted her breaths until he fell asleep as well.

* * *

The next morning, the Courier was jittery and stood while eating the breakfast that the Followers supplied – a surprisingly tasty mix of Cram and diced potatoes, seasoned liberally with jalapeño and served in tortillas made from ground honey mesquite pods – and had pounced on Boone the moment he wiped crumbs off of his fingers with his canvas pants, nerves painting a very clear picture on her face, drawing her eyebrows up into a bow and turning her pupils into pinpricks in the middle of her light irises.

“Sooo,” she drawled, rubbing her hands together impatiently, “how are you feeling today?”

Boone swallowed the last bite of food that he had shoved gracelessly into his mouth and let a smirk tickle at the corner of his lips. “Like a trip to the Strip might be in order,” he replied, looking down at her over the top of his aviators. “The Tops?”

The relieved expression that washed over her face was obvious before she threw her head back and groaned out something that sounded vaguely like, “ _nuhhhghfinally_.” She sounded like a ghoul, and mumbled out a sigh before straightening back up. “Okay, so, I just want to get this done with,” she said in a low voice, “I want to get that platinum chip back an’ see what’s so important about it; getting Benny to answer questions is… secondary.” She drew out the last syllable suspiciously, and Boone could see her fist tightening around the strap of her pack; she wasn’t planning on an interrogation, that much was obvious. The sniper didn’t envy the chairman his position within Clarke’s sights.

“You’re thinking he’s gunna go the way of Jeanie May?” Boone asked, and the Courier shuffled her feet uncomfortably then rolled her shoulders, squaring them before tossing her hair back to look Boone straight in the eye.

“If he does?” Her face was soft, but he could see the steel behind her eyes. Boone reached up and tapped the patch on his beret with one finger, and the Courier’s lips curled into a sly smile as she whispered, “My good man.”

* * *

As eager as she was to make her way to the Strip, the Courier seemed relatively nonchalant, relaxed even, as she strolled down the streets of Freeside at Boone’s side. The sniper appreciated the leisurely pace, though, keeping his eyes and ears open and alert to detect any threats that might have been lurking behind twisted and rusted out cars, or inside the towering corpses of the ruined buildings that lined the straightaway that led to the glitz and glamour of New Vegas proper.

Freeside and New Vegas were like two different worlds, and under other circumstances Boone might’ve been excited to treat a young woman to her first outing to the Strip, but this was no pleasure trip; their mission might have been revenge, but it was a mission nonetheless. Clarke was starting to march down the street with her hands clenched at her sides, looking determined and dedicated, and Boone couldn’t help but share her fervor. This was the culmination of their hunt across the Mojave, they had their prey backed into a corner, even if he didn’t know it yet, and Clarke was ready to snatch him up by the neck to get what she wanted.

A sudden, unpleasant thought came to mind on the heels of his other musings; this seemed to be the finish-line, an abrupt end to their quest. Clarke may not have had any designs on leaving Boone behind for another man, but what about just leaving him behind, period? There was nothing to really tie her down to the Mojave, to him, and he wondered if she would disappear as fast as she had come into his life that first night up inside Dinky, just like she did to the people of the Mojave after fulfilling her bargains with them, vanishing back into the desert like some sort of avenging spirit with no self-preservation skills to speak of. Clarke had upheld her end of their bargain weeks ago, they had hunted Legionaries, and he was about to complete his part, but suddenly he didn’t really want to. Boone slowed his march to a troll and searched his mind for the right words, ones that wouldn’t make him sound like a lost dog. He tried to sound aloof, but it suddenly seemed like there was something in his throat.

“What’s the plan after the Tops?” he asked, and he was answered with one of the Courier’s signature shrugs.

“I’d really like to help out the Followers some more, if you don’t mind hanging around Freeside for a bit, no more than a few days,” Clarke said, “and we can ask around about the Legion while we’re at it. Go where the information takes us on that one, cause I’ve kinda been getting the notion that they’re just bent on hurting innocent folk ‘round the Mojave and I can’t see the sense in that, so I’m thinking we see who we can help out, right?”

Boone let out a relieved huff and nodded. The Legion had started to press harder on NCR defenses in the last few months, and tensions rising between the factions, marked by civilian casualties, was making life brutal in the already unforgiving desert. The NCR didn’t have the manpower to face the overwhelming army of slaves that was massing on the other side of the river, and as Legion troops chipped away at NCR numbers, the Second Battle of Hoover Dam seemed like it would play out like a bloodbath when it inevitably came crashing down through thin and tired NCR ranks.

The small army, already spread thin, could benefit from skilled civilian gunslingers intervening in other civilian matters concerning the Legion so the NCR could maintain it’s focus elsewhere, Boone reasoned with himself. It wouldn’t be revenge, it would be a public service. “Agreed,” he responded as they approached the New Vegas barricade.

Boone hung back as Clarke allowed Old Ben to chat her up amicably; he was an inoffensive, albeit annoying, fixture at the gates that Boone had encountered several times before, tuning him out seemed like a harmless deed until the Courier turned to her back on the old man to give Boone a panicked expression, spreading out her hands in front of herself and then clenching her fists. She nodded her head over to her right, signaling for Boone to follow her to the side of the gate, opposite from the neutral clearing that usually housed reprobates and those who tried to beg their way into the Strip, and she only looked more stricken when she whirled around to face the sniper again.

“Passport?!” her whisper was shrieked and she started to pace back and forth. “Credit check?! What in the _fucking hell_ is that shit?!”

Boone froze, and all he could muster up was a feeble, “ _oh_.” He hadn’t once, in the weeks that they had traveled together, thought about actually getting Clarke onto the Strip, and he felt as is his face must’ve gone grey. He had a passport number to get onto the Strip, given to him during his time in the NCR – every Private ended up with their own passport at one point or another - and he had been operating under the assumption that the Courier would have a _courier passport_ but he hadn’t once thought about the fact that she probably could never string the numbers together without her memories intact. “I have a passport,” Boone ventured.

“How?” Clarke snapped.

“NCR.”

Clarke stuck her lips out and scowled. “That makes sense. Fuck. But I’m an employee of the Mojave Express, and my final destination was the Strip, shouldn’t I have a passport, too?”

“Yes.”

“Well, _I don’t_ ,” Clarke was yelling now, waving her hands around her head as she raved, and she was starting to look as if she wanted to punch something. “I don’t have the two thousand caps to pass a credit check!”

“How many caps do you have?” The Courier had padded her purse well with caps from the Gun Runners, a week back, but they hadn’t traded – or prospected, for that matter – since, and coin went quickly in the Mojave, especially after taking a medical tour of the desert within that week. Life saving procedures were costly, and the Courier wasn’t stingy with her wealth after being patched up by various doctors.

“I don’t know? Maybe three hundred, if that? I haven’t exactly been focused on fiscal responsibility, you know?” She started to punctuate her words with both hands, pointed straight out, as if she were miming boxes in the air. “I’m on a mission. To shoot somebody. In the fucking face. I was not focusing on _caps_!”

“What do we do now? Prospecting?”

Clarke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “No, _shit_ , no, it took me _three weeks_ of shoving shit into my bag to get a little less than twelve hundred caps. We wouldn’t make the coin in time, especially ‘round these parts. I’m sure every ruin is practically sterile after being picked over. _Fuck_.” She pressed against her temples with her knuckles and stared past Boone’s shoulder, away from the Strip, losing herself in thought. A plan was obviously forming behind her eyes, and Boone just hoped that her plan wouldn’t end with them getting vaporized by Securitrons.  


After a few minutes of silence, she sighed again. “Well, I guess it’s time to go talk to the King.”


	9. In The Ghetto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay!
> 
> On a completely and totally related note, take your meds, kids! 
> 
> Self care is important, who knew?

Clarke was no fan of the King. 

Or his crony, Pacer, either. In fact, she probably disliked Pacer leagues more than she disliked his boss. Too easy to read by half, cock-sure and haughty about the hierarchy present within the powerful gang, he had immediately dismissed the Courier out of hand. His demeanor said everything. ‘ _Who does this little shit think she is, waltzing in here and asking for an audience with the King_ ,’ his stance screamed as he leaned against the wall next to the door and scowled. She could feel Boone glowering back next to her as he drew up to his full height and let out an almost imperceptible breath, but she waved her hand down by her hip, knowing that the sniper would understand her command. ‘ _Stand down_ ,’ the motion said.

Adaptation was important in the Mojave, and so was a little lip service, apparently. The Courier softened her eyes and drew her eyebrows up, painting a vaguely obedient smile upon her face and opening up her body language to give herself a trustworthy quality that was compounded by her polite tone, “I’m new, here in Freeside, and wanted to pay my respects to the man in charge.”

She knew that her smarmy act was immediately successful when Pacer stood up straight and flashed her a smile that did nothing to put her at ease. “You know what, you, I like you,” he pointed at her chest, much too close for comfort. “Half these people around here, they forget who runs the place.” He fumbled with the lock on the door then pushed it open, gesturing towards the center of the room inside, “Head on through. The King’s the bored lookin’ guy by the stage. Can’t fuckin’ miss him.”

Clarke was far more interested in the dog laying at the brunet man’s feet than the man himself, if she were honest, ears drooping to the floor and his eyebrows jumping as he watched the humans that came to shuffle before his master. He gave a low whine and a lazy wag of his tail before he closed his eyes and snuffled back to sleep, and Clarke had the most intense urge to plunge both hands into his fur to see if she could incite the vigorous tail-wagging that she had seen several times from Cheyenne. This pup was far larger than Sunny’s companion, and boasted much more fur, where he was fur and not gleaming cybernetics, but the most interesting thing about this dog was the exposed brain that sat between his pointed ears. ‘ _Cyber-Canine_ ,’ she thought to herself.

Immediately getting off on the wrong foot, the King greeted the Courier with a drawled, “Why hello, little lady,” and a flirtatious smile as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his knuckles. He raked his eyes up Clarke’s body appreciatively, but she didn’t find the action flattering and kept her face neutral as she asked about work.

The first assignment he gave her, with no promise of caps, was to follow a Freeside guide to the gate. If she was a bit stupider, she might’ve pocketed the two hundred caps to rabbit off to find more, but she knew that, despite her dislike, the King was an influential figure in town and bending her knee to his will would work out well for her in the future.

Orris attempted to be charming, but all Clarke saw was a shrewd businessman who was undercutting the competition and insulting her ability to handle herself – par for the course, seeing as _she_ had hired _him_ \- which raised her hackles and won him no friend in the young woman. His pace was hardly leisurely, and Clarke could tell that Boone was on edge, especially after their minor ‘confrontation’ with a group of thugs. The Courier knew, right after three shots popped off and the four men fell to the ground, ‘dead’, that Orris was no guide, he was just a run of the mill con-man. She ‘accidentally’ tread on one of the men’s hand, and ignored him when he broke character and gave a groan, Orris already turning the corner onto the main drag. 

“Should we just finish the job?” Boone had asked, unholstering his rifle, but Clarke shook her head after she popped open the clip of her 10mm pistol, revealing a mostly empty magazine. She’d be reduced to beating them over the head with the butt of her pea-shooter, and didn’t want to tangle with Orris unless absolutely necessary.

“C’mon. Let’s just go report back to the King. We’re not getting paid for this shit.”

* * *

The next assignment that she was given, the Courier probably would have taken for free anyway, as soon as she heard about a couple of local civilians being beaten badly enough to end up in the care of the Followers. It only took minor probing to coax the entire story out of the conscious victims, and Clarke immediately felt dread drip down her spine when she ducked out of the medical tent and spotted Boone’s red NCR beret. The man was loyal, still a soldier at heart; what would happen if she had to ask him to choose between his precious NCR and the people of Freeside?

She’d probably lose her friend, that much was pretty certain.

The notion to ask Boone to sit this particular task out in favor of Arcade creeped up between her ears, but she banished it as quickly as it had come; if she was contending with mounting hostilities with NCR personnel, that red scrap of material could possibly save lives – hers in particular. Clarke hadn’t replaced her Vault Suit for the same reason – she had stumbled into town with a yellow ‘ _13_ ’ emblazoned onto her back, it was inevitable that she became ‘the Courier in the Vault Suit’ as soon as she started to stick her fingers where they didn’t quite belong. Good old Bill Ronte had spun his tale to plenty of locals already, earning her free water access, better prices at Mick and Ralph’s, and warm smiles as she walked down the boulevard, and she wasn’t quite sure she’d get the same reception if she wasn’t wearing the bright blue suit.

“Boone,” she called, waving him over from where he was speaking with Beatrice, one of the Follower’s hired guns, a brash, funny ghoul with a naughty sense of humor and enough knowledge of guns to keep the sniper listening as long as he had the time. Boone gave a nod to the ghoul and came jogging over. Clarke didn’t talk until he was close enough for her to step into his shoulder to speak in a low tone, making sure no one could overhear their conversation. “It seems our boys here might have been attacked by some NCR soldiers. It looks like these tensions have evolved into violence.”

Boone looked stricken, drawing back away from Clarke as if she had slapped him, all of the color draining from his face and his lips settling into that hard, unforgiving line that morphed his face into stone. He looked betrayed, and the Courier wasn’t sure who the look was directed towards, her or the NCR.

“Listen, my good man… We have to tell the King about this,” she said, reaching out to try to touch the sniper’s hand, as she had done the first day they had arrived here to comfort her friend, but he snatched his body away as if she was a snake, about to bite him. “Boone?”

“Fix this,” he snapped, drawing away from the Courier further, and he only looked more frustrated at Clarke’s confused, ‘ _what_?’. “It’s what you do, isn’t it? More innocent people are going to get hurt if you don’t fix this.”

“ _We_ have to tell the King about this,” the Courier repeated, and when she reached for Boone this time, he didn’t back away, but he looked deflated. She clapped her hand on his shoulder just to be safe. “Then we’ll go from there. Trust me.”

Clarke was immeasurably thankful that she had chosen to bring Boone along later that night as he walked by her side, a solid pillar of strength next to her as bullets pinged off of the dirt around them in the dusky evening light. She was sure that without the shield of his red beret, they would have been shot dead long ago, despite their hands being held in the air near their faces and the white scrap of tee-shirt that was clutched in her fist as a flag. The duo had to walk past more than one King, laid out very still in gaps between the rubble, black blood pooling beneath their bodies in the early twilight.

Clarke could make out Elizabeth Kieran’s voice over the cacophony that was going on around them, shouting orders to her soldiers as they approached the worn guard post. “Hold your fire! Hold your damn fire! That’s the Courier! Hold your fire!”

Clarke let out her breath in a great whoosh; no King, not even Pacer, would shoot an envoy of their leader in the back with so many witnesses available, and with the NCR personnel no longer popping off rounds, their chances of being gunned down had just been dramatically reduced. After a warning to keep their guns holstered from one soldier, Elizabeth approached with her machine gun still clutched in her hands. Her hair was wild and blood was dripping down a ragged gash on her forehead that disappeared into the light locks, turning them a gruesome shade of red – she had narrowly missed having her own brains splattered onto the ground, apparently, and she seemed more then willing to do what it took to keep any more violence away from her and her citizens after being nearly kissed by Death, even if it included attempting to make peace with the gang for now. Negotiating a ceasefire with the Kings was far more strategic than allowing the bloody clash to escalate into full blown war while the NCR was locked in a losing battle with Caesar’s Legion, and the Major was smart enough to know that some resources in exchange for lives was the right thing to do.

Clarke stayed to attend to Major Kieran’s injuries while Boone assessed any possible casualties for her, wandering off under the freeway with his rifle drawn. ‘ _I’m gunna have to get that man a nice new toy after all of this,_ ’ she thought to herself, ‘ _and a stiff drink or ten._ ’

She propped Elizabeth against the wooden outpost and pressed her white flag against the wound to staunch the heavy bleeding while the injured woman grimaced and tried to recoil, only to bash the back of her head against the post with a cry. The Courier flinched in sympathy but pressed on, feeling for any bullet fragments that may have been left behind, the Major groaning through clenched teeth as she tried to stay still and failed. Satisfied, Clarke pressed both edges of the wound together and sealed it with the soaked rag underneath her palm. Elizabeth’s voice was thin when she spoke, “We’re sisters now, you and I.”

“What?” The wound had been relatively shallow, but that didn’t mean that the woman wasn’t settling into shock now that the adrenaline was starting to subside.

“We both gone and got shot in the head, isn’t that some sort of sisterhood?” Elizabeth asked, and she only smiled when Clarke drew back in shock. “Don’t think we don’t all know which Courier you are, kid. Come all the way from Goodsprings, right?”

Clarke sighed and reached into her pack with one hand to grope for a Stimpak that she knew she had shoved into one pocket or another before returning her attention to stopping the bleeding. She knew that she couldn’t avoid making some sort of reputation for herself if she began to meddle in other people’s lives in the Mojave, but she had hoped it wouldn’t follow her so close to New Vegas. Bad luck, she supposed. “That I did,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder and heaving a sigh of relief when she saw Boone walking back with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Then help a sister out, girl, and find _me_ some handsome First Recon man to watch my back, would you? Freeside’s a dangerous place, it’s turning out,” the Major said, falling silent as Boone stepped up to the pair, all business, to inform the two women that the only casualty was one King, so far. The Followers would be busy that night, and the Courier would be returning to the King with more unpleasant news. She felt a headache forming behind her eyes, and she rubbed her forehead with a bloody palm, smearing red across the top half of her face. “ _Fuck_ ,” she mumbled as she stood and turned to Boone. Elizabeth would be fine, the bleeding slowed to a drip and Clarke had administered a Stimpak for good measure during their conversation. “We need to get back to the King.”

“You’re covered in blood,” Boone said, gesturing at Clarke from head to foot.

“Good,” she snapped. “I hope I get it all over his stupid polished floor. Maybe on that gaudy white jacket of his for good measure, maybe he’ll stop winking at me.”

Clarke turned to walk towards the main drag in Freeside, but Boone caught her by the upper arm and rolled his eyes at her, his own white flag in his hand. “You look like a fiend,” was his response as he pulled the Courier a little closer and scrubbed at her forehead with the cotton fabric. Clarke tried to paint an annoyed expression across her face, but she wasn’t sure if it was as convincing as it would have been if her heart wasn’t suddenly hammering against her clavicle like a cazador was trying to escape from her chest. Boone’s eyes were pretty clear behind his glasses at this proximity, and she could make out hairline scars scattered around his face from sand that turned into razors during harsh windstorms. A few were deep, the one bisecting an eyebrow and the other a white line against his lips that traveled up underneath his nose, giving him a grizzled look while his eyebrows were drawn down in concentration with his eyes intense behind his dark aviators. ‘ _Get ahold of yourself, bitch, this is business as usual, _’ she cussed in her head, genuinely annoyed now, which was reinforced when the sniper stepped back with his usual stoic expression settling back onto his face, obviously unfazed by their close adjacency. “Better,” Boone shrugged. “Kind of.”__

____

The walk back to the School of Impersonation was a tense one while Clarke wracked her brain on how to coax the King into arbitration now that one of his own had been killed in the conflict that had most likely been caused by his own right-hand. Caused by unnecessary posturing and aggression, without the King invested in pacification the rising factionalism would only cause more strife on Freeside’s streets. ‘ _But a casualty changes the game, doesn’t it_?’ she asked herself.

So pessimistic was her thoughts that she felt physically ill as she stood before the King, and she couldn’t hide her surprise when he greeted her with a sad smile, telling her that he had heard the entire story already, inviting her to sit across from him. “It just may be time for a little more talkin’ and a little less fightin’. You’ve done for us plenty, so I’ll tell you what. As a token of my esteem, just this once, name whatever you want, and if I can make it happen, it’s done. Just like that.” The King swiped his hands together to illustrate his point. “Only fools rush in, though. Toss it about your head a little. You’ll only get one favor from The King.”

Clarke’s immediate reaction was to shout, ‘ _Get me onto that Strip! _’ but she physically bit her tongue to keep the words from tumbling out of her mouth. Doc Mitchell _had_ warned her about minding her impulses, could be the time to exercise some control. The King had given her something great, here. He had the power to do things that she just frankly could not achieve – things like helping her find **her** Courier to put a bullet between his eyes, too, for his hand in the demise of the person she had once been. As far as she was concerned, he was just a culpable as the Chairman, this would-be Courier Six.__

____

‘ _Let Courier Six carry the package, he said, like the Mojave’d sort you out or somethin’_ ’,’ Nash had said back in Primm. Well, the Mojave had tried, and the Mojave had failed, and the Mojave would spit out her secrets even if the Courier had to stomp from one end to the other and back again to find them. Clarke would get her answers one way or another, and she knew that this wasn’t the way to get to Benny.

____

Putting her hands on the cool linoleum table, she pushed herself to stand and nodded at the King, keeping her expression as professional as she could. “Thank you, sir,” she said before she glanced back at Boone. “I think it’s time for a drink at the Wrangler with my friend, if you don’t mind.”

____

“Of course,” the King spread his hands out on the table, then winked provocatively. “You toss that around in your beautiful head a bit. You only get one favor from the King, baby.”

____

Boone was silent next to her until they were outside and well away from The King’s School of Impersonation, heading towards the only casino in Freeside. “Why didn’t you have him get you into the Strip? He could find you a passport tonight,” he said, sounding exasperated and maybe a shade angry with her – he must have been wondering what the fuck she was thinking, maybe reconsidering the catastrophic head wound on legs he was following around the wastes. She couldn’t explain what it was, something deep in her belly just told her that the King owing her a favor was much more valuable than a simple passport or caps for the credit check.

____

“We should check with the Garrett twins about setting up a supply agreement with the Followers, and see if they have work they’re willing to hire out for. We’ve wasted a day running around for the King, we could have been halfway to two grand by now,” she turned her head to grin at Boone, showing a little teeth, and she knew her expression must have been predatory from the uncomfortable look that crossed the sniper’s face. “I shouldn’t doubt us, the bad ass motherfuckers we are. We just negotiated a ceasefire, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty great about rustling up a few caps compared to that shit-show.”

__‘ _Besides, I have bigger plans for what the King can do for me._ ’_ _

* * *

____

With the holotape securely tucked into an inner pocket in her pack, Clarke brought up her Pip-Boy to try to make sense of the Freeside ruins where Cerulean Robotics was supposed to be. First, her map took them down an alleyway where they were greeted by a drunk and an ambush. Facing down attacks from pool cues and straight razors with rifle and repeater proved easy enough, and they hurried away from the minor massacre no worse for wear. They resorted to asking for directions from two dirty children that were chasing each other around the streets with a novelty gun, and the young girl pointed out the building on the Courier’s Pip-Boy while the boy asked if he could touch Boone’s sniper rifle.

____

Getting into the office wasn’t an issue, and neither was finding the robot that Mick had told her about, safely encased in glass and steel with the terminal glowing faintly next to it. Boone crept around the desks, quietly dispatching the mutated rats that were scurrying around while Clarke tucked her pack in-between her legs and gave her knuckles a crack. Truth be told, she was far better at low-tech hacking than dealing with terminals; she was a tactile person, and the feeling of a bobby-pin and screwdriver in her hands felt much more natural to her than keys beneath her fingers, but she had finally taken some time to look at the _Big Book of Science_ that she had found tucked away in a building in Nipton. It only held a few chapters on basic hacking, but the wealth of information that the book had stuffed into them was pretty astonishing. After seeking out all of the closed delimiters in the file code, she was left with only two possible passwords, and with a hydraulic hiss, the protective cell slide open to reveal the cumbersome robot as it lurched forward several steps.

____

“ _Fully Integrated Security Technetronic Officer active and reporting for duty, ma’am,_ ” it greeted as it spun on it’s bearings to face her. ‘ _Fully Integrated_ ’ probably referred to the ‘additional programming’ that Mick had managed to slap together for her, but this was supposed to be a _sexbot_ for god’s sake, Mick hadn’t thought to tweak the name slightly?

____

“Huh, that’s a… mouthful,” she said, and it sounded like Boone laughed, only to try to cover it up with a cough. She glanced back at him and raised her eyebrow, but he just shook his head as if to say, ‘go on’. “Let’s shorten that to Fisto?”

____

This time, Boone absolutely did laugh, barking out a cackle before he shoved one knuckle between his lips to silence himself, and Clarke thought she might have heard a muffled, “ _really?_ ” from him. The back of her ears started to burn, then right between her breasts to creep up her neck, but she tried to ignore the embarrassment as the robot began to speak again, accepting his new moniker. 

____

“ _Yes, ma’am. Please assume the position,_ ” it said, one of it’s three pronged ‘hands’ beginning to turn counterclockwise slowly. Boone didn’t bother to hide his delight, laughing in first in disbelief before it evolved into deep, raucous laughter as he leaned on the workbench next to the Courier.

____

“What? No!?” Clarke practically shrieked as she recoiled in absolute horror, and the sniper’s guffaws echoed off of the concrete walls. He was holding his head in his hands with his elbows planted on the workbench, shoulders shaking, then he sucked in a big breath and looked at the Courier over his shoulder.

____

____

“You sure?” he asked her, and she felt her face flame.

____

“ _Shut up_ ,” she hissed, but she couldn’t quite keep the edge of laughter away from her voice. Mirth was the best sort of infectious, especially coming from the usually stoic sniper, and his gentle teasing was nothing that the Courier couldn’t – or hadn’t – repaid in kind.

____

“ _I am programmed for your pleasure. Please assume the position,_ ” Fisto repeated to another outburst of quiet laughter from Boone, and he waggled his eyebrows at Clarke.

____

“Why don’t you test it out yourself if you’re so interested in seeing it at work!” she barked, failing to keep the petulant note from her voice as she pointed accusingly at her companion with both hands, but he just laughed at her.

____

“Fisto isn’t quite my type,” Boone retorted, leaning his back against the workbench again, crossing his arms with what Clarke thought might have been a flirtatious smile playing at his lips, but his was warmer and more welcoming than the ones she had received from the King. No, she decided, he was just smiling at her, right? The Courier tried her best to ignore it and instead raised both arms in an exaggerated shrug, curling her nose and baring her teeth in an expression that was born of both confusion and disgust to push away the nervous pleasure she felt from Boone’s smile.

____

“What makes you think it’s mine?!” she snapped back, only to be answered with a robotic, “ _I am programmed for your pleasure_ ,” from Fisto and another snicker from Boone. “ _’My pleasure’_ is for you to go report to the Atomic Wrangler! To that Garret fuck! Right now please!”

____

“ _Yes Ma’am_ ,” Fisto agreed and began his slow, stomping journey to the Wrangler, but the sniper’s mirth apparently didn’t leave with the robot because he was still grinning as Fisto’s footsteps echoed out of earshot. The Courier wondered if he was planning on teasing her for acting the pimp, again, but his vaguely flirtatious look had taken on a predacious edge and he still hadn’t moved.

____

“Do you have one?” He asked, then clarified when Clarke cocked her head to the side in confusion. “A type, I mean.”

____

The young woman let out a disbelieving laugh and scratched underneath her cap with her fingernails before shrugging. “Iunno, man,” she complained. Honestly, she hadn’t given it much of any thought; intimate interactions with other humans. There were times when she felt something warm and exciting in the pit of her stomach that she knew was attraction, but she had always resolutely avoided acknowledging those feelings, especially since they were usually directed towards inappropriate figures at inappropriate times; such as that one time when she tried, and failed, to keep her eyes from wandering over Ringo’s body as she collected his clothes to dress a corpse, or vague want for a widower – her friend – while she was on a suicidal revenge mission into the most secure area in the Mojave wasteland. “I reckon that we’d better do some prospecting while we’re here,” she ambled over to a broken Protectron and kicked it, “these guys probably have some parts I can trade off to Mick and Ralph, maybe even some intact energy ammunition if they’re the right model.”

____

“Eyebots more your speed?” Boone teased, not willing to accept the subject change. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, so when Clarke rolled her eyes, there was no actual annoyance behind the action, but her face was still burning hot and she was sure that it was as red as it felt. Playful flirtation was uncharted territory for the Courier, and she would rather be disarming landmines than attempting to navigate this shit after releasing a half-ton sexbot into the city. Clever comebacks usually appeared unbidden in her mind – to spill from her lips seconds later – but in the current moment she couldn’t seem to bring up anything even vaguely intelligent, which was a shame because Boone didn’t fall into banter often.

____

“I like humans! People,” she said lamely. “Men? Fuck, Boone, you picked one hell of a time to get chatty on me.” She pointed at him again. “To think that all it took was to become the weirdest pimp in the wild wasteland. Should we start exclusively taking weird jobs if we manage to escape the Strip with our lives after we murder a chairmen of one of their casinos?”

____

“Weirder than that ghoul cult?” Boone asked. “Didn’t you get into a fistfight with a super mutant over brahmin the first night we met, too? How weird are we going?”

____

“We’ll wipe out Fortification Hill, you and I, if you’d just _shut up_ about the robot,” she snarked back.

____

To his credit, Boone immediately shut his mouth and began prying open the Protectron’s seamed chest cavity so Clarke could bury the top half of her body into the robot, where she started pulling out fission batteries and energy cells to shove into the canvas sack she had stuffed into her bag just for this purpose. The batteries were heavy, and she couldn’t be bogged down by an extra thirty pounds without slowing to a crawl. Admittedly, when she hefted it into Boone’s arms after stripping every robot in the building, it was probably quite a bit heavier than that, but the sniper didn’t complain about the burden. He just slung the canvas sack over his shoulder and followed Clarke out into the setting sun. _’That should keep him quiet,’_ she thought to herself.

____

In fact, Boone was his usual stoic self until they returned to the Old Mormon Fort that night, settling into their bunks with Clarke’s purse heavier than before and jangling with caps from the Garret Twins and the Mick and Ralph duo. Clarke climbed into the top bed and curled around her backpack, threading her arms through the straps and laying on top of the lumpy makeshift pillow, protecting their precious caps and prospected goods. They would have to meander their way to the Gun Runners again, but Clarke had other errands on her mind, tasks to do if she survived her first trop to the Strip, so when Boone spoke, it took her for surprise.

____

“I bet you daydream about Mick.”

____

“ _Fuck you, man_.”

____

____

* * *

____

The next day, the two travelers didn’t stay for the breakfast that the Followers provided. Instead, Clarke had a low, private conversation with Julie while Arcade packed two caravan lunchboxes to the brink with fresh, unirradiated food and handed them over to Boone. Clarke could see the obvious tension between the two men, and wondered if it had anything to do with the Latin that Arcade had spouted off in front of the sniper the first day they had met. Just about anything associated with the Legion was met with uninhibited disgust from the veteran, so much so that he had curled his lip up when he saw Clarke pull Legion armor from her pack to shove into a dresser in her room in Novac, all those weeks back. It took her explaining that a disguise could come in handy in the future, assuring him that she had no designs on wearing it unless absolutely necessary, and then clarifying that, yes, she had stolen it from a Legion corpse while they had searched the camp for valuables to be sold after freeing the group of Powder Gangers. The sniper hadn’t exactly looked pleased, but he stopped looking like he wanted to hack Clarke’s head off with his combat knife, too, and the issue hadn’t been brought up since. 

____

They said their goodbyes for the day, Clarke explaining to Arcade that they would be back again that night if they hadn’t managed to rustle up the necessary caps to get into the Strip, and the kind doctor shook her hand firmly as he nodded wishing her good luck.

____

The Gun Runners paid out over a thousand caps, again, after the Courier had shoved handfuls of ammunition and batteries through the reinforced metal slot designed exactly for that reason. After she pocketed her hard earned money, she leaned against the side of the sturdy shack and sat, running a hand through her hair before bringing up the notes on her Pip-Boy.

____

“I started with three-hundred and sixty-seven caps, then another three hundred from Francine Garret, and two-fifty from her brother. Now we have the Gun Runner’s caps, that puts us at…” she tapped a few numbers into her Pip-Boy and then grinned at Boone, who was standing with his back to the morning sun.

____

“Well?”

____

“Let’s go paint that town red, my good man.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very disappointed that there weren't more Elvis references in the King's dialogue in game, so I fixed it and dropped a few references for y'all, including, yes, the chapter title.
> 
> After the extreme blood and gross over the last few chapters, I decided to that our heroes needed a little bit of a break from getting the absolute shit kicked out of them.


	10. The Chairman of the Tops Casino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Again! 
> 
> I code all of my HTML directly into my chapters, and this one gave me a week's worth of trouble!
> 
> WIth the holidays upcoming, I'll be taking a break for the month of November! I'll be using this time to create some great media for you guys and build up my chapter-well.

The Strip hadn’t changed much in the last few years, Boone noticed as he was hit by ghosts of memories as soon as the rusted metal doors swung shut behind them. In fact, it hadn’t changed at all, as if time had stood still after he had left the city with Manny and Carla by his side. Securitrons still rolled back and forth on the cracked concrete, patrolling around the smatterings of drunkards and gamblers that wandered the Strip night and day. He had once been one of those red-face Privates, watching Gomorrah dancers while swaying drunk on his feet, considering spending a week’s pay on an hour with a woman without having to worry about being court martialed for fraternization. The same dancers wriggled their bodies on the corners to entice folk into the casinos, the same robots, the same everything. 

Except for Clarke. The last time he had followed a woman around the Strip, she had been nearly as tall as himself with pillowy flesh and fashionably curled golden hair, not this skinny slip of a human, more than an entire head shorter than himself, always kind of splattered with blood and refuse and in tight blue canvas instead of swirling skirts. She had pulled her hair into a looping bun at the base of her neck to keep it away from her face but her hat was pulled low on her forehead, obscuring her eyes in shadow. It gave her a severe ambience that didn’t settle well with Boone. 

There had been a different atmosphere building around the duo over the last few days, one that the sniper found that he appreciated, pleasant and a little exciting, but the coy mood evaporated the moment they had passed the Securitrons at the gate. Clarke stopped looking quite like herself, though, and became rigid, her mouth a pale slash across her face as she took point with her hand quivering towards her weathered 10mm pistol.

Boone hoped that she wouldn’t choose now to become trigger-happy. For crimes on the Strip, Securitrons were judge and jury, and the sentence was almost always a swift death. The sniper knew that the hardest part of murdering Benny would probably be their escape from the Strip – if they made a hasty exit and got past the gates before his body was found, they would just maybe get away with this. The pair would likely need to rabbit off, back to the Mojave, but he didn’t quite care for the Strip and saw no problem with leaving it behind, forever if he needed to.

They hadn’t walked fifteen feet into the Strip before a Securitron came rolling up to them, and Boone’s heart jumped a bit before he realized that he recognized the robot as the one that had come on through Novac during the same few days that the Courier had been in town, rustling up trouble along with information. He was surprised when she greeted the machine by name. 

“Hello, Victor,” her tone was neutral, if a bit cool. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Well howdy there pardner!” Victor responded cheerily with a heavy southern drawl that sounded eerie coupled with the robotic voice. “Welcome to New Vegas!”

“Care to point me towards the Tops? I have a score to settle,” she said, sweeping her hand out to gesture to the Strip.

“No can do pardner, the boss wants to see you right away! That dish you’re planning on serving up is best cold anyway, don’t you know? He can help you serve it up extra chilly.”

“The boss?” Clarke’s body had stiffened completely, and she didn’t really seem like she was breathing anymore. 

“Up at the Lucky 38, Mr. House would like to have a word with you!” the robot announced and Boone’s heart might have stopped a bit. The Lucky 38’s doors hadn’t opened since the Great War of 2077, or at least that was what the word was on the Strip. Theories ranged from Mr. House being a ghoul, to cloning or human experimentation, to secret Old World government agencies. Some said that the people who disappeared on the Strip had gone into the Lucky 38 never to been seen again, most likely a ghost story to keep nosy gamblers and would-be vandals away from the doors and the lone Securitron that always kept vigil at the top of the marbled steps. A face-to-face meeting with Mr. House was unheard of, and anyone in the NCR would die to be in Clarke’s shoes right about then.

The Courier stood silently for several breaths, and Boone almost wanted to reach out to touch her shoulder like she had started to do with him over the last few days, but he settled for clenching his fists by his sides instead. He wasn’t quite ready to cross that threshold into initiating any real physical contact that might happen between the two of them, casual as it might have been. The last time he had – grabbing her arm to wipe blood off of her face, only to smear it down her temples – Major Elizabeth Kieran had given him a sly smile over the Courier’s shoulder, waggling her eyebrows at him in an conspiratorial expression as he tried to look nonchalant. The Major did nothing to help him keep his composure while Clarke’s breath ghosted over the inside of his wrist and the muscles in her arm flexed underneath his hand, her blue eyes staring at some point past his ear as she chewed at her upper lip. She had obviously been concerned about reporting back to the King while Boone was thinking about how warm her body could be against if he pulled her just a few inches closer, the fine friend that he was. 

After what felt like several minutes, Clarke cocked her hip to the side and crossed her arms, as if she was about to defy the invitation from the mysterious benefactor of the Strip, but instead she said, “Okay, Victor, thank you. I’ll head there right now, if you don’t mind.”

“I see you brought a friend!” The bot said, it’s cowboy graphic flickering on the screen for a moment before stabilizing again. “Sorry, pardner, but they’re gunna have to stay out here.”

Boone could see Clarke’s jaw tighten as his own face darkened into a scowl, but she took him by surprise again when she nodded stiffly, “His house, his rules,” she turned to her companion and lowered her voice, though they both knew that it probably did nothing to keep their conversation private, “Do you mind waiting here while I head up?”

The sniper didn’t like it. He didn’t trust the cowboy robot, and he certainly didn’t trust Mr. House, and he didn’t like Clarke being alone without someone watching her back. At the same time, though, he knew that she had been alone before he had started to travel with her, he knew that she could take care of herself, but the Lucky 38 might as well have been the moon if anything went wrong. “I don’t like this,” he voiced, stepping in close to her shoulder. From this position, he could have ran his hand down her back if he wanted, settle his fingers around her sharp hip while he asked her to consider staying, but he didn’t. She didn’t need him telling her what she should do.

“If we’re being honest, my good man, I don’t either,” she said, and then she grabbed Boone’s wrist in one of her rough hands. “Listen, Boone, if I go up there and don’t come out, I want you to leave New Vegas, okay?” The sniper looked down on her with a glare, but she squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Go to Freeside, go to the King, Julie and Arcade, Elizabeth, anyone who will listen, and you come back and burn this place to the ground to find me, you hear? Don’t let these robots turn me into a human battery, okay?”

Boone snorted and rolled his eyes. Burn down the Lucky 38? For her, just maybe. “I won’t let you become a human battery.”

She grinned at him and winked conspiratorially, then elbowed him in the gut, earning her a low grunt from the sniper. “Don’t look so melancholy, there. Provided I don’t get murdered, I should be out in less than an hour, right? Then we’re back on track, no matter what.”

Clarke shrugged her pack off of her shoulders, asking Boone to keep it safe while she was inside the casino. He pulled it over his back and was surprised by it’s heft, and ended up deciding to sit on the steps with it tucked between his legs and his back to the Securitron, who made him uneasy. The sniper didn’t like the implications; if the robot had been following Clarke since Novac, had it been dogging her the entire journey? Was Mr. House behind the scenes playing puppet master?

A shiver ran down Boone’s spine as he realized that this was no simple shoot-and-scoot that they were involved in here; if Mr. House was, for some reason, invested in Benny’s survival, they might have lost before they even began. On the other hand, he reasoned, the Courier seemed to be able to take a bad hand and turn it in her favor more often than not. If Mr. House really wanted to stop them, he could have had his Securitrons gun them down the moment they entered the sovereign city. 

People were starting to notice the open doors of the casino and began gathering in small clusters, gossiping amongst themselves and pointing at the top of the steps, but none approached, so prevalent the Lucky 38’s ominous reputation was on the Strip. Boone was thankful, he was far enough away from the street to avoid probing questions and attempts at conversation that he didn’t want to field. That was Clarke’s area, he was just her spotter and backup gun, content to hang back behind her while she capably handled their situation. 

It had a relaxing effect on Boone. He had spent the last several years watching over an entire settlement, responsible for the lives of the residents of Novac. Without that heavy weight of accountability hanging over his head, it felt easy to do things such as shrug easily instead of arguing when Clarke took point or start to flirt awkwardly with her when the opportunity presented itself. It was thrilling when she didn’t brush him off like she had done to the King, Boone recalled. 

The King was handsome, far more handsome than Arcade, and was well known for his charming personality and success with women far and wide. It had made Boone’s stomach twist when he subtly propositioned the Courier, inspecting the young woman’s body as if he wanted to eat her. The sniper had wanted to pull the man to his feet to shake him and demand he respect Clarke, but she simply looked annoyed and impatient – the King was a means to an end to the girl, nothing more, and Boone’s red-hot anger cooled to a simmer to match his companion’s displeasure. All things being equal, he had been happy when she had walked away from the other man with a favor left hanging over his head, as if it he hadn’t just offered her anything within his rather impressive influence. Walking away from the King, she had told him that she didn’t need him, and the sniper knew that that wouldn’t go untold in Freeside.

As she freed _Fisto_ from his containment cell for James Garret, Boone just couldn’t resist the teasing that morphed quickly into wolfish flirtation when her face blushed prettily, hilariously horrified at the decidedly unappealing sexbot while in the same breath, dropping lewd puns, unintentional or not. Boone’s mirth easily covered the lusty thoughts that the suggestions her words brought to mind, lightly mocking her embarrassment, goaded on by her quite chuckles and sheepish smiles. When she told him to try out the bot for himself, he couldn’t help but think about telling her that perhaps they could be trying out other things in the ruins of Cerulean Robotics, but he gave her a line about types instead. It had been far too long since he had felt any sort of real desire and couldn’t quite decide if he was simply missing the adrenaline of traveling with the Courier through the Mojave and was seeking a similar rush. He could only excuse so much as battleground flirtation, after all.

The sniper couldn’t help but feel a bit of pleasure from her discomfort concerning sex, either; she was quite composed, rarely outright uncomfortable with any situation she found herself in, but pimping didn’t seem to suit her. She stumbled over her words with Beatrice and Old Ben, laughing nervously every few words but still able to charm the two Freesiders into employment at the Wrangler, and couldn’t look Mick in the eye when she asked about his knowledge of sexbots around New Vegas. 

It felt nice to be the one with a modicum of composure for once, especially after the sniper was able to control the side-splitting guffaws that had overtaken him. He was able to look at the Courier over the tops of his sunglasses without having to school his features – they were alone, and the upper-hand was no longer Clarke’s, making Boone feel powerful and predatory. If things between the two hadn’t been so confusing and complicated, the sniper might have given into the urge to back her against the workbench that he was resting his hips on to whet his lips against hers. The prospect was tempting, to try to satiate himself within her – assuming she was receptive and didn’t respond with a fist in his throat – but Boone knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied with one kiss, fumbling around in an abandoned building would just open floodgates that he had carefully tended over the last few years. It had been an easy celibacy with no prospects in Novac, the small, sleepy town, but Craig Boone _was_ flesh, and New Vegas was a city devoted to temptations of the flesh. Much longer and Fisto _would_ be his type.

It was no help that Clarke seemed to become more attractive as the weeks went by. She had lost that childish quality that she had when they first met, dressed in ill-fitting clothes with dark, mournful circles under her sunken eyes. In truth, she was a svelte little thing, distracting him from the morose he usually liked to bury himself in with her tight Vault Suit and easy demeanor. When he asked about her preferences, her face grew redder as she flicked her eyes down his body and if she hadn’t immediately changed the subject, the man would have taken her look as an invitation to hoist her up against him to take what he wanted. Not that he would have accepted, the coward that he was. Besides, all this lust and desire wasn’t worth setting their partnership on a path to ruin. All of it made him wonder if a trip to Gomorrah wasn’t in order to set his head back on straight, until he started to fantasize about hiring a lithe, petite dancer with long hair, after which he quickly banished the notion. Laying with a whore that reminded him of Clarke would probably do nothing but worsen his ridiculous infatuation. Like any fire, it was set to burn itself out eventually if he failed to stoke it.

The sun beat down straight overhead by the time the Courier came pushing out of the heavy doors of the Lucky 38, the painted glass slamming behind her with an echo that turned several inquiring heads her way as she stalked over to Boone, her fists clenched tight at her sides with her cap crumpled in one hand and head bent down, uneven hair obscuring her face from view. She didn’t acknowledge the Securitron, or the gaggles of gossips gathered at the base of the steps, not bothering to whisper out their questions and theories. The sniper was glad for the distraction from his thoughts, which had devolved into second-guessing and questioning his actions and attractions, reminding himself of all the blame he carried on his shoulders, from Bitter Springs to Carla. Guilt started to eat away at his colon, making his gut hurt – he was thinking about another woman while his wife laid dead in the ground, if she had even been afforded a proper burial. How could he justify trying to lay claim to Clarke at all?

Boone stood as she approached, slinging her pack onto his shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asked, but instead of responding, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist again, not pausing. She pulled him down the steps and up the street, away from the Lucky 38 and whatever was plaguing her about the casino, until she realized that they were heading back to the Freeside gate and turned on her heel to head the other way with a muttered swear. “Clarke, talk to me.”

The Courier stopped and tugged at Boone’s wrist, pulling him down to her level so he could see her face. Her eyes were red and her nose was ruddy and wet as if she had spent some time crying, or knowing her, screaming furiously while tears streamed down her face. Looking over to the casino, Boone wondered if he could make it inside to kill Mr. House and have any chance at survival. “Boone,” her voice was hoarse with rage, “He gave me _permission_ to kill Benny. He practically _ordered_ me to kill Benny, as if I am his avenging hand, some sort of sick lieutenant of his. He—he’s been… _fuck Boone_.” Her voice cracked and she pressed one hand against her forehead and swallowed, looking away for a moment and blinking rapidly. “I haven’t been in control at all this entire time.”

She had let go of his wrist during her quiet tirade to touch Boone’s knuckles gingerly, who turned his hand to catch her fingers much like he had that first time at the Old Mormon Fort, only this time, he was the one offering what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I think you’re giving House too much credit – you’re the one who got us here, bad ass motherfucker you are.” Clarke tossed her head back and laughed at Boone’s intentional echo before looking up at him with her wet, bright eyes and a smile. The sniper swallowed and looked away before continuing, letting go of her hand, his palms suddenly moist. “Permission or not, I don’t think we should change our plan.”

Clarke nodded and squared her shoulders with a resolute huff of breath. “I’m ready.”

* * *

Clarke shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably then itched her scalp, pushing her hair into minor disarray, still hatless. She glanced up at Boone nervously, then shuffled her feet again before clearing her throat. The sniper looked down at her out of the corner of his eye and only raised his eyebrow in acknowledgement, not wanting to give into distracting thoughts about their proximity in the elevator to the 13th floor. She cleared her throat again. “Listen, my good man, I know that this is my mess to mop on up, but I have to ask you to do something for me,” she said quietly, fingering her sidearm thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Boone matched her volume, turning his eyes back to the elevator doors and clenching his teeth together before looking at her again. He wondered what she would say if she knew just exactly how much he would do for her, and couldn’t conjure up much that he wouldn’t. 

“In there – with Benny…” she sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Part of me thinks I’m gonna walk in there like some cool cat, slick as can be, but then I think – fuck,” she raked her hand through her hair and looked at him desperately. “Boone, if I freeze up there, or can’t do it, I need you to fucking shoot that cunt in the face for me. Then shoot me in both knees for good measure, okay?”

The sniper rolled his eyes. “I’m not shooting you.”

“But you’ll shoot Benny?”

“I’ll shoot Benny,” he agreed as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open with a smooth ‘ding!’, even though he doubted that he would be the one raising a gun against the Chairman. Clarke touched his arm gently before popping her head out of the elevator, looking up and down the corridor before motioning for Boone to follow at a distance. The weathered 10mm had materialized in her hand to hold before her as if she was born with it clutched in her fist, her movements were so natural. Boone had seen twenty-year NCR veterans less comfortable behind a firearm than the Courier, who couldn’t be much older than that. She side-stepped down the hallway, checking room numbers as she looked for the Chairman’s Suite with a certain fluidity that the sniper had come to expect from her during critical moments. 

Behind some planters full of desert folia, Clarke pulled up to her full, unimpressive height and nodded her head to the side, silently ordering Boone to her flank at 4 o’clock before sliding the key into the lock, hands steady.

The man in the checkered suit didn’t look up from his drink until the door clicked shut behind the duo, a lazy smile on his face until recognition dawned on his face followed closely by horror. “What in the goddamn…? You?” Benny closed his eyes and shook his head. “Oh Swank, you _finky_ bastard.” The man propped an elbow on the bar and flashed the pair an easy smile, audaciously relaxing his posture. “Baby, listen – hhUrk!”

Boone hadn’t even seen the Courier move, popping off her shot from the hip and catching Benny high in the shoulder, ripping open his gaudy suit and sending blood splattering across the bar. The force of the impact threw the chairman back into the barstools where he lay for a moment, groaning and rolling his head back and forth in pain. “ _Shit_ ,” he groaned, pulling his head up to look at his shoulder and giving a little cry at the blood cascading down the front of his body, touching it gingerly before letting his head fall back again with a strangled sob. “Serves me… r-right for—for using a 9mm,” he whimpered.

The Courier gave a snarl and threw her gun to the side, cracking it into the brahmin-hair plaster wall and leaving a crumbling hole as she advanced upon Benny slowly, like a predator straight from the wastes. “ _I dug myself out of that grave to put you in yours_ ,” she roared as she grabbed a barstool by it’s legs, swinging it up to her shoulder easily and pausing for a heartbeat. When she spoke again, her voice was eerily even-keeled. “Unlike you, I’ll make sure.”

Benny’s started to breathe heavily in huge gulps, finally realizing the gravity of his situation and his impending mortality. “Uh-oh,” he whined, trying to scramble backwards with his good arm but only succeeding in falling back against the remaining stools and smearing bright blood across the wall behind him. He shrunk back and raised his arm in a defensive move. “No no no no – _please_ – “ he pleaded but the Courier hefted the chair over her head anyway and brought it down on Benny’s outstretched arm, crumpling it with a snap that Boone heard ten feet away, deaf to the man’s pleas for mercy. He let out a horrified scream as Clarke lifted the stool again, revealing his mangled limb, bent into a deep ‘V’, but she didn’t pause, bringing her bludgeon down onto his head, crushing his nose and half his face, cutting off his screams for a moment with a dull thud. 

When she swung again, blood was flying in an arc along with her hair, arching her back completely to bring the stool down with all of her body weight onto Benny’s chest and Boone could see the red-hot vengeance in the Courier’s eyes. The Chairman’s face was a ruin of teeth and split flesh, his mouth a ragged hole in the middle of his head and the only thing recognizable about it as human was his bulging white eyes. Blood sprayed up under the bar and high enough to splatter on the ceiling, but the Chairman was still moving and the Courier wasn’t relenting. His screams had turned into desperate, “Ack—gack—ack—ack—” sounds as he waved his hands around weakly, body twisting as if it would save him, but his chest looked concave in places, blood and bile pouring from his mouth and Boone knew that little, if anything, could save him now.

* * *

/>

* * *

Benny’s eyes rolled around the room to Boone, a silent plea, but the sniper stayed nearly statuesque, even after Benny stopped moving and his pleading eyes dulled into a long stare, while he listened to those metallic thuds turn meatier and the smell of copper and shit filled the room. Boone stayed still until Clarke stopped hefting the chair over her head and let it fall to the side as she slumped against the bloody bar, at which time he took just a few huge strides over the slippery floors to grasp at her arms before she actually fell into the mess that had been Benny just a few moments ago.

Red was smattered from her eyebrows to her ankles, bits of meat and bone hanging clumpy in her hair as she squeezed her eyes shut, heaving out breaths to suck in huge mouthfuls of air but her body was strangely limp in the sniper’s hands, as if she couldn’t muster up the energy to stand under her own power, sagging up against him and leaving her companion to bear the brunt of her weight.

Leading her over to the far couch, the only part of the room untouched by flecks of blood, Boone pushed her down to sit and crouched down in front of, balancing on the balls of his feet and waiting patiently. The veteran knew a thing or two about giving into brutality and didn’t want to prod the new, gaping wound in her moral compass. She was sweating and still breathing heavily as if she had just cut through another Legion camp by herself, and he could imagine how exhausted she must have been after the pure physical exertion she had just put herself through, swinging around a chair over half her size forty-some odd times within just a few minutes.

Time stretched on, but Boone stayed silent, listening to the Courier’s breaths even and threading his hands together to rest his chin on his knuckles. The capacity for this sort of patient waiting was what had made Boone one of the best snipers in First Recon, a silent sentinel even while he wanted to snatch up the Courier’s bloody chin in his hand and demand that she open her eyes to tell him that she wasn’t in mental ruin. Finally she rubbed the inside of her elbow across her face and groaned deep in her chest.

“You’re not going to say anything?” she asked in a tired voice, dropping her arm and opening her eyes to look at Boone through a squint. Her eyes moved to Benny’s mangled body then back to Boone deliberately. Did she think that the sniper would hold judgement over her for _this_?

“No,” he responded simply, shrugging his shoulders.

Clarke sighed heavily and nodded. “Okay,” she said lightly, as if she wasn’t covered head to toe in gore. The couch creaked as she rose to her feet and gingerly touched the front of her Vault Suit. “I need to wash some of this off.”

Boone offered to search for the platinum chip while Clarke searched for the bathroom, and she gratefully accepted the division of tasks. She ducked into the adjoining room while the sniper meandered back over to the bar and the pooling blood with an island of dead flesh in the middle. The Courier had fallen upon him with such brutality that it looked as if she had managed to separate the top half of his body from the bottom, leaving Boone to step over hunks of flesh that she had bludgeoned off of Benny’s face and hands to pull the once-checkered coat off of the twisted body. He jerked it up by the collar, letting Benny’s body slide out of it and fall back onto the broken chairs with a clatter and a thump, exposing an expensive looking leather body holster and an even more lavish 9mm pistol inlaid with pearl and gold.

Benny’s last words were, ‘ _Serves me right for using a 9mm_ ,’ probably referring to the gun that he had used on Clarke, and suddenly Boone felt as if he was staring at the face of death under the reverent gaze of the saintly woman carefully lacquered into the ornate grip. This was the pistol that had nearly killed the Courier back in Goodsprings, and Boone couldn’t decide if he wanted to actually touch the weapon or not. 

The checkered coat was dripping blood onto his boots, though, so he threw the jacket over the back of the closet loveseat with a wet smack and flicked the excess moisture from the tips of his fingers, directing his attention to the matter at hand – a platinum poker chip. The breast pocket held two keys on an ornate keyring, which Boone rolled his eyes at and pocketed; pretty baubles and shiny metals usually fetched decent prices with the traveling caravaneers going through to Utah or New Reno, more civilized places where frivolity could be afforded, the Courier had explained to him early on to excuse her obsession with rummaging through _every_ container they encountered. The jetted inner pocket was where he found the oversized chip, carefully wrapped in a painted silk kerchief. Boone held it up to the light to inspect it – aside from the heft and the glint of precious metal, nothing about the chip marked it as special, certainly not special enough to shoot a courier over.

The sound of rushing water came to Boone’s ears as he opened the door to the adjoining room – it sounded as if the tub was running, and suddenly the sniper couldn’t quite swallow. Had she actually decided to bathe in the suite’s bathroom? The duo was operating under the protection of Mr. House, but that seemed a bit careless, even for the Courier. He rapped on the door with a knuckle once.

“Clarke?” His voice came out a little hoarse, so he cleared his throat and opened the door slightly. “Clarke?” He asked again, a little louder, turning his head to speak into the cracked door. When she didn’t answer after a few moments, Boone frowned, his stomach unsettling, then he cursed to himself. He shouldn’t have left her alone after she experienced trauma, what the fuck had he been thinking?

He pushed into the bathroom, preparing himself for anything but what he saw. The room was empty, save for the Courier’s boots next to the rapidly filling tub. “The fuck?” He twisted the knobs to shut off the flow of water before ducking back into the bedroom, panicked, until he saw the Courier beyond the demolished wall, speaking to a Securitron with an unnerving smile on it’s square face. Her feet were bare and her front was still covered in blood. “Clarke?”

Her head whipped around before she relaxed, as if she had forgotten that Boone was in the suite with her. “Boone,” she greeted, waving towards the robot. “I’d like you to meet Yes Man, the brains of Benny’s operation. Seems like he knows all about the Platinum Chip.”

“Oh ho!” The Securitron responded joyfully. “You give me too much credit! My functions include monitoring Mr. House’s data network and decoding his encrypted transmission, too! Benny is the brains of this operation!”

“You mentioned,” Clarke quipped drily. “That’s unfortunate, seeing as Benny’s brains are splattered on the floor next door.”

“I’m glad! You must feel so much better now!” Yes Man said, one of his segmented arms waving cheerfully. “I feel a bit less bad about helping Benny try to bring about _your_ doom! Hey! You seem like a real go-getter! Why don’t you take the Platinum chip?” Boone tapped the Courier’s elbow and flashed the chip. Her face remained stoic and still vaguely annoyed. “Oh ho! Provided you friend here shares.”

Boone narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like this robot, either. New Vegas seemed full of the creepy things. “It belongs to her,” he snapped, handing the chip over to the Courier while still glaring at Yes Man. She looked down at it, sliding the metal between her fingers slowly before clenching it in her hand. Her fist waved in Yes Man’s face.

“So what you’re telling me is that this gives me a full flush against Mr. House?”

“Yes! Benny wanted to kill Mr. House and use the Platinum Chip to copy my neuro-computational matrix onto the Lucky 38’s mainframe! And then I guess I’ll just do what I’m told!”

“You _guess_?” Clarke sounded suspicious, fiddling with the chip again.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious Benny wouldn’t want me to, but hey! Not my fault I can’t say no!”

The Courier looked at Boone and bit her lip before turning back to Yes Man. “What if I told you that I’ve been inside the Lucky 38… but Mr. House and I didn’t exactly get along?”

“You have! Wow! It sounds like Mr. House is just plain mean. No wonder all the good guys want to kill him and take his things!”

Clarke shook her head. “Hey now, I’m just the new kid in town, man. I’m not going to be making any rash decisions – or engaging in more murder anytime soon.”

“That’s super smart of you! You really know your stuff!”

She pocketed the chip and turned away from the Securitron. “C’mon, Boone, I need to wash off this blood,” she nodded to the robot. “Yes Man.”

“Don’t stay away too long! I’ll be waiting right here!”

Outside of the Tops, the sun shone unnaturally bright even behind Boone’s sunglasses. It seemed as if years had passed since they had gone into the Casino, instead of just a handful of hours that they had actually spent on assassinating Benny. The Courier had dripped water all the way to the casino floor, not having bothered to wash herself and her suit separately, she had sat in the tub nearly up to her shoulders and scrubbed away most of the grim before it dried into her skin and clothing. Standing watch, it was an incredible effort for Boone to keep his gaze from wandering too widely. As a poor distraction, he tried to casually ask the girl if she wanted the 9mm handgun in the other room for her own uses, but the question came out in starts and stops that belayed his uncertainty.

For her credit, she didn’t pause in her utilitarian scrubbing, rubbing her face with a handful of rusty colored water before saying, “Yes, please,” as if Boone had just asked if she’d like another serving of breakfast. He snagged both the gun and relatively unstained holster for Clarke, who buckled the leather around her shoulder guard as she toed on her boots and collected her weathered 10mm. The gun came apart in her hands and she stopped for a few beats before swearing and throwing it at the wall again. Boone caught sight of a pinched look on her face before she whipped around and stalked out of the suite, trailing water behind her for the sniper to follow the wet path. He closed the double doors behind himself and shuffled for the keys; the first didn’t work, but the second locked the suite to his great relief. With hope, the two would be out of the casino before the Chairman’s bodyguards decided to return to duty. Clarke wasn’t even attempting to be discrete, leaving literal footprints behind that lead straight back to the gruesome scene. 

They walked abreast in a pregnant silence through the casino and out the doors into the afternoon sunlight. Clarke paused and turned her face up to the sky, Boone stepping up behind her to bend his head down and murmur into her ear. To any passerby, they would look like a romantic couple as opposed to a newly minted pair of assassins. “What now?”

She sighed and shook her head, showing her uncertainty. Boone wished that he had wandered into her conversation earlier than he had – whatever Yes Man had told Clarke about the Platinum Chip was obviously weighing heavily on her mind, and she wandered over to one high walled planter to sit down heavily, hanging her head low between her knees. Hovering off to the side, Boone wanted to ask question after question, but any conversation they had on the Strip would be victim to the effervescent ears of Mr. House and the sniper had a feeling that Clarke didn’t think he was as benevolent as he tried to seem. Any citizen of the NCR would agree with her. 

The man who approached them did so with purpose, breezing right by Boone and stopping in front of the Courier with a haughty look of recognition on his face. He looked down on the girl, who raised her head with a sharp look that quickly hardened into an unreadable mask, but he seemed to be just another well-dressed socialite. Boone took a step forward but she shook her head tightly, her eyes going wide for a fraction of a second.

“The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you, child. He admires your accomplishments, and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his mark,” the man said with a voice a smooth as silk, presenting the Courier with a large golden coin with a charging bull pressed into the metal, hanging from a black leather thong between the man’s long, dirty fingers. Boone heard a roaring in his ears and it felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs. The Legion was here on the Strip – watching them, watching _her_. His arm spasmed out for his gun, but the Legionnaire just gave him a smirk. The moment a bullet flew in New Vegas, the perpetrator would be met with all of the fury of Mr. House’s impressive security force, followed by a swift death. “My Lord requires your presence at his camp on Fortification Hill. With his mark, you are ensured safe travel through his lands. Your crimes against the Legion are hereby… forgiven. Caesar will not extend this mercy a second time.”

Blood flooded Boone’s mouth as he bit through the flesh of his cheek to stop himself from screaming, and for a few horrible seconds, he wondered if Clarke would betray herself to the Legion, betray him. Until she laughed and snatched the Mark from the air; the Legionnaire looked pleased but the veteran knew that bitter laugh that bubbled up from the Courier’s stomach. Disbelief mixed with a hefty dose of disgust. “You? _Again_?” She slipped the Mark into her sleeve with a flick of her wrist, and Boone could see her mind working behind her eyes. “How did you find me here?”

“I am Vulpes Inculta, the greatest of his Caesar’s Frumentarii. It was not a challenge to find you,” Vulpes shot a gleeful look at Boone, his eyes flicking up to the red beret for a few painful seconds, “Nor is this my first visit to the Strip.” Clarke didn’t reply, instead standing from where she had collapsed to raise her chin defiantly against Vulpes Inculta, who was truly the most fearsome and infamous of Caesar’s Frumentarri. She managed to glare down her nose at him, unholstering her new 9mm pistol, but he simply chuckled at her. “Caesar awaits, child.”

He waved loosely at the duo and turned around, putting his hands in his pockets and whistling to leisurely wander away. Boone felt impotent and powerless, floundering and unable to catch his breath. Beside him, the Courier was looking at the pistol in her hand, inspecting the pearlescent grips and golden inlay slowly, as if she was considering the gun itself. Everything felt thick and syrupy around Boone, and as Clarke raised her hand, he felt as if he was watching from behind a thick sheet of ice, time slowing to a crawl around him.

“Vulpes Inculta!” She called, her voice ringing out through the Strip, stalking forward several feet and Vulpes’ wasn’t the only head that turned to face the young woman, but she kept of advancing upon the Frumentarii, ignoring the rest of the Strip. “Ave, true to Caesar, you fuck!”

She leveled her weapon to his face and pulled the trigger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to use this space to remind all of my wonderful readers that all art, unless specified otherwise, is mine and is copywritten to yours truly!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the first act of Mojave Express! I'll be returning sometime around the holidays, but if you'd like to keep updated and see some behind the scenes fun, you can follow me on Twitter @bBoneyard or on Tumblr at BoneyardBettyTheElder.Tumblr.COm


	11. Things That Go Boom!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everybody!
> 
> I always underestimate how hard the holidays will hit me, so I apologize for taking more time than expected on this update. As for updates. I'm still working strong on the story, so don't worry about that! I don't have WiFi at home right now, so updating will be pretty spotty. I'll hop over to a coffee shop at least once a month to upload, and there will be another chapter within the week! (Thanks to AO3's great uploading system. Seriously, these guys are great and everyone should donate when they have their fundraisers.)

The interrogation room was poorly lit and dusty from years of disuse, the overhead light flickering every few seconds and casting a green shadow on everything in the modified broom closet. Every time Clarke moved her hands, the heavy shackles on her wrists fell together and echoed loud enough for her to hear it in her teeth. She glanced back over her shoulder at Boone, who was leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest; he met her eyes and gave a reassuring nod.

The Military Police Officer sitting opposite of her at the small card table cleared her throat, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “So let me get this straight,” she said, “The greatest of Caesar’s Frumentarii managed to get onto the Strip, and you just _happened_ to recognize him from Nipton, which was razed to the ground weeks ago with only a handful of survivors, one of which you just _happen_ to be, and… then you shot him,” she didn’t sound convinced. The woman stood, pushing one hand through her short black bob with another huff and turned around to pace in front of the mirrored wall. 

“That’s correct, Ma’am,” the Courier responded respectfully, just as Boone had instructed as he hissed into her ear during her arrest, gripping her arm hard enough to leave bruises, trying to keep ahold of her as she was ripped away by the two officers cuffing her hands together. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ she thought to herself.

The world had devolved into chaos seconds after her bullets ripped through Vulpes’ neck and face, splattering brain and bone across the smooth concrete. ‘ _Of fucking course the world went crazy, what did you think was going to happen?_ ’ Screams rang out through the Strip and people started stampeding away from the spreading blood as Clarke lowered her weapon, her own blood pumping loud in her ears for several heartbeats before another body slammed into hers, sending her sprawling across the ground. Boone wrenched the gun from her hands and sent it skittering across the pavement, wrestling with the Courier’s arms and legs while she fought back, yelling, “ _What the fuck, man! _” The young woman bucked up, trying to dislodge the larger man, but he just curled his body around her tighter. It took her a few moments to realize that the sniper was covering her body with his protectively, trapping her in a bear hug with one arm curled around her head, just before he was hauled off of her by NCR personnel. He could have been killed in they had decided fire instead of congratulating him on his quick thinking.__

____

“ _Shit_ ,” the NCR soldier muttered under her breath, stopping her anxious pacing to brace herself against the back of her vacated chair. “That’s probably why the Securitrons didn’t open fire, then…?”

“Must be, Ma’am,” Clarke agreed plainly, though she knew that that was hardly the reason that she remained unmolested by Mr. House’s security forces; he desperately wanted the heavy chip laying in the Courier’s breast pocket, next to her heart. She could have cut through half of New Vegas before House decided to throw away his weighty investment in her. There was no love between herself and the oversized projection screen that flickered with the likeness of an Old World gentleman, though, the smooth voice that was accusatory of her engaging in the high-stakes game he himself had thrust her into, the bastard.

“That doesn’t mean that this is square,” the woman accused with a finger jabbing towards the Courier’s face. “You could have caused a serious diplomatic issue with Mr. House; every citizen of the NCR is bound by our laws and if Mr. House demands any reparations…”

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Boone interrupted, raising himself from his slouch against the wall. “But she’s not NCR. The Republic doesn’t have jurisdiction.” His baritone was even and moderate, obviously seasoned by years of responding to superiors in the military, leaving the Courier feeling encouraged – the ‘diplomatic issue’ here would her detainment, if anything. Now that she knew what the Platinum Chip was capable of, she knew at what lengths Mr. House would go to recover it, up to and including spending hundreds of millions of caps to find it. If the NCR took possession of the Chip, there was no telling what sort of bloody clash it would result in. 

“And you!” The Captain turned her sharp eyes to the sniper, not missing a beat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up in the stockades after your superior officer hears about your involvement with this, soldier. First Recon is held to a higher standard than this.”

The air instantly changed, Boone narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses and setting his lips into a hard line, but the woman continued. “Anyway, I have orders to detain you both until Ambassador Crocker arrives, he wants to speak to you,” she pointed at the Courier, “ specifically.”

The trio sat in stiff silence for several minutes after that, Clarke not willing to speak for fear of incriminating herself further and Boone wafting up dark clouds from his corner. This had to be big if an ambassador had decided to become involved; she had assumed that dispatching a high ranking Legion spy would have gained her more friends than enemies on the Strip and in the NCR, but it was looking like that wasn’t the case. 

She really did prefer the wasteland – despite Mr. House and his cavalier attitude about her preferences. Things were much simpler outside of these walls.

Long after Clarke had started fiddling with her shackles again, the door opened and a man in a much too crisp suit sat opposite of her, setting a manila folder on the table between them. He frown at her hands. “Captain Pappas, can we get these cuffs off of our friend here? This is really no way to treat a guest,” he said, gesturing to the irons around the Courier’s wrists. Once free, she rubbed at the raw skin and nodded at the diplomat.

“Ambassador Crocker, I assume?”

“And if it isn’t our talented third-party negotiator. Welcome to the Embassy,” he replied, smiling at the girl. She schooled her features into a neutral mask and bit her tongue. The assumption that she hadn’t been operating anonymously hadn’t really occurred to her before today; between both Securitron and Legion spies, and her involvement with the NCR, she was no longer a nobody here in the Mojave Wasteland. “I’m glad you made it to the Strip. I’ve had something very important I’ve wanted to discuss with you. I think you might be the perfect person for the job with your background and reputation.”

Clarke laced her fingers together and leaned forward, weighing her options. They were few. “I’m listening.”

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time they left the embassy, Clarke’s back and ass sore from sitting on a hard plastic chair for so long. She rubbed her face with one hand, feeling incredibly weary. Waking up in the Old Mormon Fort that morning felt as if it had been years ago instead of mere hours, and exhaustion weighed heavily on the Courier’s shoulders like a wet blanket. She felt agitated and ready to rabbit off back to the wasteland, where she felt much more comfortable, but she wasn’t quite ready to face artillery barrages quite yet. What had she just agreed to?

“Back to the Lucky 38?” Boone asked from behind Clarke’s shoulder, leaning over her to glance at her profile, raising his eyebrows with his question.

The Courier groaned and shook her head. “No, _fuck no_ ,” she laughed humorlessly. “I need a stiff drink or twenty before I do _anything_. House has been waiting two hundred years for this stupid fuckin’ chip, he can wait ‘til after we hit up the Wrangler.”

In truth, she wasn’t even sure if handing over the Platinum Chip would be the best course of action, but she couldn’t seem to think of an alternative that wouldn’t end up with her being shot in the head again. Mr. House had hemorrhaged wealth over the last two hundred years for the Chip, he wouldn’t hesitate to shell out more caps to find her, and given the number of people that had already sought her out, she apparently wasn’t very good at hiding her trail.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Boone sounded dubious, and Clarke couldn’t decide if he was questioning her leadership or her mental state.

“Benny had possession of this bad boy for goin’ on a month, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t want to stumble back to the Followers drunk – I bet Julie has one mean disappointment face,” Clarke made a face herself at what she was about to say. “House gave me access to a suite in the Lucky 38, so we’ll head there once we’re ready tonight.”

Boone gave a look that could have been interpreted as shock, but it quickly faded into his signature scowl. ‘ _Surprise fuckin’ surprise_ ,’ she thought.

The Courier grimaced again, trying to ignore the frustration that was bubbling up in the pit of her stomach – she hated being told what to do, and right now, three governments were doing exactly that. Her strings were being pulled in several directions at once; to the north and Nellis Air Field, to the East, across the Colorado, and then her selfish desire to do what she wanted throughout the Mojave, adhering to nobody else’s plan but her own. That was one of many things that she appreciated about Boone – in the month that they had been traveling together, he hadn’t really told her what to do. He was content to trust in her capabilities, and she liked it. Now, if he could show emotions other than ‘constipated’, that would be great. ‘ _You’re not being fair_ ,’ a voice said that filtered unbidden through her head. ‘ _He’s just hard to read, but you’re getting better at it_.’

The walk to the Atomic Wrangler was a quiet one, the tense silence following them down the main drag and all the way up to the steps of the second-rate casino. The Wrangler wasn’t a very pretty place, but most of the walls were intact and some of the chairs even had cushions. Sliding her body into one of said chairs at the bar, she waved a hello at Francine and let a friendly smile settle onto her face. Julie Farkas had no good things to say about the square-faced twins, but in truth, Clarke was fond of them. Their drinks were strong and they paid well, and given the proper motivations, could be easily convinced to help their local community as opposed to hinder it. They weren’t bad people, really, they were simply peddling to the masses.

Francine slapped a moist rag down on the counter in front of the Courier, looking peevish. “Well if it isn’t the high-roller,” she said, leaning her elbows against the false marble. “I didn’t think we’d ever see your skinny ass ‘round these parts again, what with the kinda folks you runnin’ with now.”

“I beg your fuckin’ pardon, Madam Garret?” Clarke asked, looking over to Boone in the seat beside her, as if he would answer, but he only shrugged his shoulders unhelpfully.

“Ain’t it been somethin’ like two hundred years since anybody’s been inside the 38 casino, James?” the woman asked her twin as he sat a beer in front of Boone. Both men nodded, and she turned her attention back to the Courier. “Now why you gunna be slummin’ it with us poorly folk if you could be rubbing elbows with New Vegas’ finest?”

Clarke sighed and shook her head, her smile turning agitated for a moment. The wasteland operated on three things; debauchery, death, and rumor. It wasn’t a surprise that word had filtered past New Vegas and into Freeside. “There was no ‘rubbing elbows’, that’s for damn sure,” she said, rubbing her face with her hands. “House – he talked to me through this big… intercom, thing. It was… unpleasant. Not nearly as nice as chatting with a handsome woman such as yourself.”

It was too embarrassing to admit that she ended to chatting with a giant television set instead of the man himself, a fact that Clarke had decided not to examine too closely just yet. Ever since she had walked through the gates to New Vegas, her day had taken a decidedly surreal turn. 

“Well then,” Francine’s annoyance looked quelled at Clarke’s words, “Since you’re allowed to start slingin’ bullets on the Strip, I might have a job for you. It’ll come with a nice chunk a’ caps.”

Clarke groaned and shook her head. “No, no, _fuck_ no, I’m not looking for another shootout, like, I got arrested and everything. It was fuckin’ shitty,” she complained. Besides, there was no way that she was going to gun down someone at the Garret’s behest, but she wasn’t going to vocalize that just quite yet. “I’ll hear you out later, but right now, right now I need the good stuff. The day we’ve had and all.”

“We have some Atomic Cocktails in the back,” James piped up, waving a hand in the direction of their stockroom.

“I think I’ll go straight up tonight, I’m not trying to make Boone here carry me to bed,” Clarke responded, chuckling and looking over to her companion. The sniper ducked his head and avoided her eyes, his cheeks turning a splotchy red that creeped down his neck and to the tips of his ears. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, the Courier shook her head. Boone was painfully shuttered around other people, but bold when the two were alone, comfortable enough to casually tease and banter. Talking would have to take place away from the bar if she wanted to actually hear Boone’s opinion on their situation. “I know you don’t do tabs, but…” 

Francine curled her lips up and gave an , ‘ _ehhh…_ ,’ sound, but James interrupted her smoothly, waving off his sister. “But you’re getting wasted tonight. We have some new stock, tequila from a local retailer that I think you’ll enjoy…”

Ten minutes later they were settled around a corner table with drink in hand, Boone’s posture predictably relaxing the longer they were ignored by the other patrons of the casino. Clarke passed the bottle of tequila back and forth between her fingers before pouring herself a generous shot. She took another before her companion decided to speak.

“So,” he said, looking at her pointedly. 

“So,” the Courier echoed back, lifting her eyes to try to meet his, but the light was too low in the Wrangler, turning his aviators into black mirrors. Her own eyes blinked back at her, weary and bloodshot, sunken into her cheeks and giving her a haunted, malnourished look.

“We didn’t leave Vegas for drinks,” his tone was soft and incredibly casual, but his gaze over the top of his glasses was a weighty one, his green eyes boring into hers intensely. 

“Fuck,” Clarke chuckled, shaking her head. Due to his quiet nature, it was easy to forget how perceptive the sniper actually was. It was foolish of her to think that he had bought her flimsy excuse to leave the Strip – if she had just wanted to drink, they would have never left New Vegas. “You’re right, of fuckin’ course. I wanted a chance to talk, away from Mr. House’s many ears.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you don’t trust the man,” Boone murmured from behind the neck of his beer, taking a slow sip.

Clarke thought back to the smiling graphic that stood ten feet tall, tracking occasionally before settling back into crisp HD. In truth, she didn’t even trust that Mr. House was a man at all and not a highly advanced artificial intelligence; she poured herself another shot, spilling tequila onto the linoleum tabletop as her fingers shook. “I don’t fuckin’ trust him,” the Courier affirmed. “Come and find out he’s been monitoring me since before Goodsprings, and what’s more, knew I was in a world of trouble back there and could have fuckin’ done something but didn’t, the bastard. Far as I’m lookin’, he’s just as culpable as Benny for my near assassination.”

Boone’s jaw tightened a bit then he shrugged nonchalantly. “Mind if we take down a few more Legionaries before we try to kill him?”

The laugh that fell from Clarke’s lips was bitterly sharp and she shook her head. “I’m not looking to raze New Vegas to the ground over House’s proprietary judgement. I’m hoping I can just hand the damn Chip over and be done with him and his city.”

Boone’s look was as skeptical as she felt but he made a sound of assent low in his throat. The man disliked the lazy bustle of the city just as much as she did, if he surlier that usual disposition was any indication of his feelings for the Strip. He had mentioned meeting his late wife during R&R in the city, she imagined that being back would bring up some painful emotions. Clarke cleared her throat uncomfortably and poured another shot. “Besides, I’m sure that you’re getting sick of the city, with me hogging the Legionnaires to myself and all.”

Snagging the fifth from between her elbows, Boone tossed back the dusty dregs from the bottom of the bottle then waved it over his head, motioning for another. “About that,” he murmured after James set down a fresh pint and another shot glass. “Thought you told Yes Man that we were laying low.”

“Yeah, well, bastard called me _’child’_ , what was I supposed to do?” Clarke complained, waving one hand flippantly while tipping out two shots with the other. She raised her glass to Boone in a silent toast, who sighed and palmed his glasses off lazily before lifting his own glass. The tequila was smooth and silver, leaving her nose clear with sweet aromatics – she would have slapped James silly if it had been shitty wasteland tequila at twenty caps a pint.

Boone eyed her with his lips set in a solid line across his face, but he couldn’t quite hide the twitching at the corners of his mouth. “It was stupid,” he said, obviously pleased despite his words. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, stretching the wiry muscles in his forearms in a smooth flex. Clarke could feel the burn in her throat creep up onto her face but she didn’t look away from her companion, taking a moment to appreciate the sniper’s impressive physique. Boone cocked his eyebrow but didn’t comment on the slow appraisal, for which the Courier was grateful. With the death of Benny, everything seemed so much less rushed and frantic; no restrictive, time sensitive mission to throw herself into headfirst. The sniper’s earlier flirtations back at Cerulean Robotics came to mind, doing her best to brush him off while shouting at herself to just focus. She didn’t need that same focus any more.

Eyeing Boone from across the table, she decided that her ‘appreciation’ had to be entirely rhetorical, though. While she might not have needed the same sort of focus required to assassinate Benny, she still needed _some_ focus. 

Clarke thought to New Vegas’ – and Freeside’s – many commodities, some of which she had just helped acquire. The Atomic Wrangler boasted a relatively impressive docket of whores for hire, but the Courier couldn’t exactly remember what sort of sexual experience she had behind her; it would be the pinnacle of embarrassment to take a tumble with Fisto and lose her virginity. Something in the pit of her stomach told her that no, that wouldn’t be a concern, but she didn’t want to bet on that gamble. 

There were other, safer ways to go about working those things out, anyway. Julie Farkas didn’t have the resources, but she had mentioned another doctor in the area that Clarke could probably see for a basic gynecological exam for a nominal fee. ‘ _Sexy thoughts,_ ’ she said to herself sarcastically. 

“Everything okay?” Boone’s voice broke through her reverie. He was still leaning back in his chair, but there was fresh beer between the two, making Clarke wonder how lost in her own head she had just been. 

“Um, yeah,” she said, reaching out of the tequila again before chasing it down with the yeasty wasteland beer with clumsy fingers. “We should take a trip to the New Vegas clinic soon to see a doctor with actual facilities.”

“Doctor Usanagi,” Boone replied, his lips settling back into a hard line across his face, “I know her, I saw her after Bi – after a tour. Why the clinic? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Clarke waved her hand dismissively, filing away Boone’s halted words for later. “I just want to touch base with the clinic to see if everything is healing well,” she lied easily, gesturing to her arm. Anything other than injury really wasn’t any of Boone’s business, and she really didn’t want to explain why she wanted a doctor to examine her vagina just about now. The Courier tipped the bottle of tequila towards her companion, but he held up his hand and shook his head, palming his beer. “Suit yourself,” she mumbled, forgoing the shot glass this time and tipping back a shot straight from the fifth. Boone watched her closely, raising both of his eyebrows after Clarke wiped at the moisture clinging to her chin with the back of her hand. 

“Wanna talk?” he rumbled out, looking at her over the mouth of his beer. 

“Whatta’bout?”

“Didn’t expect things to go that way with Benny today, kid,” he snapped, voice a little sharp, immediately annoying Clarke. She tried to push it down but it rose up in the back of her throat in the form of a cutting retort.

“The fuck did you expect me t’do, Boone? The man shot me in the fuckin’ head for fuck’s sake, it’s not like I was going to, what, hop on into his bed and smother him peacefully in his sleep? Fuck,” she retaliated defensively, pulling up her lips, but Boone didn’t take the bait, frustrating her further. 

“I just want to know that you’re okay,” Boone said, voice losing it’s sharp edge, but Clarke was too riled.

“What _I_ want is for you to _stop fucking asking me that_ ,” she bit back, quite a bit louder than she had intended, turning several heads their way. The Garret twins were glaring from the bar, gauging whether or not the duo were about to cause trouble. The Courier was doing her best to avoid giving Benny any thought and Boone wasn’t helping. Every time her mind wandered back to the Tops Casino, something in her mind grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved images of his broken, mangled body down her throat while whispering, ‘ _you did that_.’ She felt horrified by herself, couldn’t seem to sit still in her own skin, but every time she recalled his dead eyes, she couldn’t help but feel a warm rush of pride and adrenaline.

He had taken everything from her, but she went and took more. That vengeance tasted sweet on her tongue.

“M’sorry, my good man,” she apologized quietly, her temper suddenly cold. “I just dunno what to say.”

Boone nodded at her as if he understood. “So am I.”

Clarke rolled her eyes good naturedly, pushing her tequila at her companion with a strained smile, longing for the return of their easy silences over this tense, uneasy air that required effort to maintain. It was a relief when Boone reached out and poured out another finger into his glass. “Last one,” he mumbled under his breath, as if he was telling himself as opposed to her, but she huffed out an ,”okay,” in return anyway. 

The uncomfortable silence settled that settled around them lasted while Boone swirled his tequila in his cup and Clarke tipped the bottle against her lips to take long, languid sips that she didn’t bother to chase. Her mood was sullen, their quiet sipping far from the celebratory drinking that had taken place after their first true victory, back in Boulder City. It made the space between her shoulders itch with irritation; this wasn’t going the way she wanted, and she tended to get agitated when her plans didn’t come to fruition, even when she wasn’t a halfway through her second fifth of hard liquor.

Boone was still shooting her wary looks from over the mouth of his bottle, following her hands with his hooded eyes, quite obviously a good deal less inebriated than herself. This, too, sent a tremor of irritation down her spine. Where she was feeble, he was stone. _Damnit._

“So,” she drawled in a desperate attempt to fill the silent void between them, “you know pretty much everything there is to fuckin’ know about me, right? …and I don’t know much of a damn ‘bout you. How’s that spell out t’be fair?”

Boone gave her a grunt and shook his head, eyes flicking to where Clarke’s fingers were still wrapped around the bottle. “Think we can chat about that later? Less liquor involved?”

The Courier narrowed her eyes, but kept her tone conversational, albeit sarcastic. “Ain’t the sort of thing people talk about over a few drinks, is it?”

The sniper heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Clarke was startled by the sudden weariness in his face; suddenly he wasn’t keen on watching his companion, gazing off somewhere past her elbow. It was several long moments before he looked at her again, weariness replaced with a fair amount trepidation. “There’s… a lot that you’re not going to like,” he said, voice thick and rough. He tipped the beer back and took several long guzzles. 

Clarke could only come up with an impotent, “Oh,” no longer peevish.

Boone settled his eyes on her collarbone. “So, later?”

“Later.”

* * *

The small hours of the morning found the duo leaning heavily on each other while shuffling down the main drag towards New Vegas. Boone had one arm around Clarke’s middle, his other hand grasping her forearm where it was slung over his shoulders, taking the brunt of her weight with every step. If the Courier was honest with herself, she was doing most of the leaning, but Boone had _at least_ half of what she drank, so she was helping. Being a good friend.

“ _Yer_ a’good friend,” she slurred out, as if he had been privy to her little internal monologue, but Boone just made an amused sound deep in his chest, squeezing her wrist gently.

“Thought you weren’t gunna make me carry you tonight,” he replied instead, glancing down to where Clarke was peeking out from under his armpit.

Clarke cleverly retorted with an, “Mmm,” sound, hanging her head down, hair falling into her eyes and mouth. “Blech,” she spat, twisting her head to free her hair. The neon lights of the King’s School of Impersonation caught her eye and she sighed, shaking her head again. Something told her that she was far from done with the Kings and their problems, and they seemed to have problems aplenty. 

“Got a King on your mind?” Boone asked, sounding bemused as he tightened his grip on her waist to heft her back up a few inches on his shoulder, but he didn’t loosen his hold after repositioning her. When had she started to slip?

“Smug… pompous… stupid… flirt,” she managed to slur, ineffectually trying to string together a comprehensive insult, turning her head to mumble into the sniper’s defined chest, rubbing her cheek against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He made a sound low in his chest that might’ve been annoyance or amusement, Clarke couldn’t quite tell. It was pleasant either way, a deep, masculine baritone noise that made her want to press closer into him. Instead she tripped over a jagged bit of broken concrete, throwing all of her weight into Boone’s side. The man stumbled but didn’t fall, bearing her bodily to set her feet to right underneath her. 

“Kinda useless here, kid,” he huffed under his breath, sending a sideways glance at the drunk under his arm, but there was one of his rare smiles plastered plainly on his face, belying his own inebriation. This was much better than the leaden atmosphere that had been hanging over them just a few hours past. The Courier just hoped that it would last past the hangover. “’Ey,” Boone puffed as he lifted her into the air to avoid another gap in the road. “I… I, uh, wanted to say, um. Say thank you.”

Clarke lifted her head, a warm feeling filling her chest as she smiled lazily up at her ally. What she wanted to say was, ‘ _You’re welcome, my friend, for whatever you’re thanking me for. Thank **you** for having my back for these past few weeks,_ ’ but what came out was an inelegant, “Whuh-haha, ‘fanks.”

Boone chuckled, but other than that ignored the Courier’s slurring. “I mean, for taking out that Legion camp… and, and, uh, that Frumentarii, _thank you_ ,” he said, not looking down at Clarke at all, keeping his eyes trained on the glow of the reinforced gate of New Vegas. Splotchy patches of pink appeared high on his cheeks to join the ruddy red of his nose, courtesy of the several beers he had consumed over the night. 

“Oh,” was her response. Did he do this on purpose? Wait until she couldn’t chatter his ear off to open up? He had said less liquor, not more. Most forms of communication were out of her reach; she was much too limp for a hug and his limbs were too far out of her reach for a reassuring squeeze.

Later, in the sparkling tower of the .38, while Boone held her hair back as she heaved into a fancy porcelain toilet, regretting the second bottle of tequila, she managed to muster up out a strained, “It’s… cause yer my friend, asshole.”

Boone must’ve known exactly what she was referring to, because he just chuckled and rubbed a broad hand up and down her back before tightening his grip on her hair for the next round of vomiting. 

* * *

Clarke woke to luxurious sheets against her skin and a heavy blanket wrapped up tight to her neck. She was sunken into several downy pillows, creating a valley in the mountain of opulence rising up around her. The duvet was a lavish crushed velvet that ran under her fingers unlike anything available out in the Wasteland, but a glance to the bedside table showed a thick layer of dust on the polished wood. The Courier suddenly felt as if she was sleeping in a tomb. 

A quick visual sweep of the room revealed Boone spread out across one of the couches in the room, still sleeping. Beret pulled down over his eyes and socked feet propped up on the far arm, his own arms threaded through each other across his chest, he still looked like a sentinel, even in sleep. He hadn’t even bothered to pull the afghan off of the back of the couch to cover himself. ‘ _No rest for the weary, _’ she thought to herself.__

____

Her head hurt, the pain pulling tight against her temples, as if something was pulling at her short hairs, but it wasn’t as bad as she would have expected. Credit to top shelf tequila, that was for certain. She’d have to buy a few more bottles off of the Garrets before they sold out of their stock.

____

As if he somehow knew that she was awake, Boone began to stir over on his couch, making a small, “mmph,” sound as he palmed his beret back into it’s proper position. Clarke watched him with equal amounts of interest and anxiety. This was the first time she’d witnessed him wake naturally. Every time she woke him for his watch, his eyes would snap open, his body jerking forward as if he feared those waking moments and was trying to push away sleep as quickly as possible. This time, though, he lay there with his eyes closed, bringing up one hand to rub leisurely against the back of his neck, yawning slowly. He seemed to be in no rush this morning.

____

Would the heavy, unpleasant air from last night return once he woke completely?

____

The Courier didn’t have to wait long for her answer, the first thing Boone swung his gaze towards was her prone figure on the bed. A vague half smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and his voice was soft as he asked how she was feeling.

____

“Like you tossed me off the top of the .38 for puking of your hand last night,” she groaned lightly, allowing herself to sink back into the bed.

____

“You were having a hard enough time having to wash it out of your hair in the sink,” he chuckled. Clarke laughed along with him. 

____

“Yeah, well, you’re the ass who wiped your hand off in my hair.” 

____


	12. Heartbreak Hotel

The Lucky .38 casino unsettled Boone. Much too quiet, much too well kept. It was as if the bombs had never fallen, like the war never happened, up in the tower. The lights didn’t flicker or brown out, the toilets flushed, warm, radiation-free water ran from the taps. There wasn’t a drop of greywater in sight, no crumbling walls. The furniture was old, but untouched, and dust left the air thick and stagnant. It was obvious that not a single breathing soul had crossed the threshold of these quarters in nearly two hundred years.

The uneasy stirring in his gut only got stronger after Clarke moseyed her way into the gold trimmed elevator to speak to Mr. House alone, leaving Boone to realize how alone _he_ was in unfamiliar territory. He had barely taken stock of his surroundings the night prior, stumbling out of the lift with Clarke in tow, only one thought on his mind, ‘ _Please don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke._ ’ The lurching movements upwards towards the suite hadn’t agreed with the Courier, who quickly ran green and groaned, “ ’m gunna be sick.”

Through lucky speed and drunken wrangling, he was able to get her leaning over trash can before the first productive heave, then over to the toilet during a pause in the woman’s vomiting. By the time it tapered off, he had only gotten a little on his hands, and even then had – accidentally – rubbed most of it off into the Courier’s hair. Even so, she wasn’t a morose drunk, and managed to joke around a few mouthfuls of viscose bile that smelled of sour tequila. In all honesty, Boone couldn’t remember the last time he had such easy fun, tipping Clarke over a sink to scrub at her hair with a bar of antiseptic smelling soap. She had been laughing along with him, gripping the edge of the ornate marble sink and pressing her dirty knees into the dusty upholstery of an overstuffed chair. In that moment, they were just two drunken friends, neither of them shouldering past tragedies or political subterfuge, just trying to cause as little chaos as possible on the way to bed and failing spectacularly. In the dark of night, with no grand expectations, no danger, the cloistered casino had felt like protection to him, but in the daylight hours, it seemed more like a prison than anything else. 

He poked through the rooms, the kitchen, gloriously stocked and spotless - other than the thick layer of dust that he was becoming accustomed to - a room with a pool table and working television, even what appeared to be a guest suite at the end of the hall. Boone had been in every casino up and down the Strip, even sneaking into the Ultra-Luxe with Manny one time, but none of them compared to the Ritz and polish of the Lucky .38.

Puttering around the Presidential Suite took much less time than Boone would have liked; he ate breakfast alone at the long, ornate table, leafed through the desks in the guest suite and tapped at the terminals. He rummaged through each room, wiping away dust where he could, telling himself that he wasn’t _actually_ avoiding the master bedroom, but after a cursory piss in the bathroom – where he _absolutely_ avoided looking towards the tub where Clarke had bathed that morning – he realized that he had little excuse to keep him from continuing his investigative cleaning into the bedroom.

Nothing had _happened_ in that room, nothing out of the ordinary. Helping his drunk traveling companion into bed after a night of drinking at a casino, how many countless times had he done that with Manny? He opened the double doors, swallowing. Clarke had been able to walk through them relatively unassisted last night, hand wrapped around his bicep and wet hair soaking through his thin t-shirt, a tangle of vaguely smelly curls pressed against his shoulder. Boone had felt effortlessly buoyant, right up until he flopped Clarke backwards onto the king-sized bed and without thought kneeling to pull her dusty boots off of her feet, still stained with Benny’s blood on the toes. Kneeling there, staring at her knees, he was struck by the sheer intimacy of the moment, how close and untouchable she was. Her hips jutted sharply just out of his reach, and the soft swell of her breast drew his eyes up, but she didn’t seem to even notice her missing boots, let alone the way Boone was looking at her or his suddenly uncomfortable disposition. Shuffling back a few inches and standing did nothing to lessen the urge to touch her more than necessary, and neither did folding his hands underneath his armpits as the Courier brought her own hands up to unzip her Vault Suit and wriggle out of it. The ragged camisole and linen shorts she wore underneath hung loose without the suit to press them against her skin and were downright modest compared to the moth-eaten underthings that she had laid in while sickly ill back in Goodsprings, but that didn’t stop his mouth from going dry at the sight.

Boone had found himself grateful when she grabbed the edge of the duvet and twisted her body up into it before she collapsed back into the pillows, sinking down several inches before settling into the pile of fabric. She had wrapped herself up to the neck, fingers on one hand poking out of the blankets to press it away from her mouth and nose, drunk and apparently comfortable.

The man had _really_ wanted to join her, so when her eyes opened just a sliver and she whispered to him, half-asleep, “There’s enough room for, like, five people in here, man,” it took everything he had in him, every lick of self-control, to force out what he hoped sounded like an easy chuckle and brush off her invitation.

“Somebody’s gotta take first watch, kid,” he lied breezily, but he shouldn’t have worried; her eyes were closed again before he could finish his sentence. Boone wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching her longingly, before meandering over to a couch to fall asleep.

This time, after pretending that he had some interest in cleaning, he took a moment to sit on the edge of the bed like he wished he had done the previous night, sinking into the pillow topped mattress and stroking the comforter underneath his fingers. It would have been so easy to climb into bed with Clarke. There were sheets and pillows and luxury and _her_ , all he would have had to do was shuffle off his own boots and crawl into bed. Wriggle his hands through that mess of blankets and sheets and wrestle away a portion for himself. Slide himself across the bed until he could just barely feel the kiss of body heat against his back. Wake up next to a pretty girl that was making eyes at him at the casino. 

Only the reality of morning stopped him from toeing off his boots and slipping in between those sheets. If he fell asleep next to the Courier, he would have to be prepared to wake up to her. Every intimidating, terrifying inch of her.

Dissatisfied with his thoughts, Boone pushed off of the bed and stomped heavily into the double bathroom, ignoring the cowboy robot as he passed it in the hall. A cheerful, “Howdy pardner!” just heaped irritation upon irritation. Hot, fresh running water was here at his disposal, and there he was daydreaming and petting a duvet like he was simple, minded by a Securitron nanny to boot.

The click of the bathroom door was sharper than Boone had intended, but the wood was still solid after two-hundred years; he doubted he could do much damage without concerted effort. He shucked off his clothes quickly, pants patchy with dust and dirt ground into the weave and a shirt so thin he would see the lines on his fingers through the fabric if he looked hard enough. What an annoyance. Fatigues never gave him so much trouble – though, if he was being fair, _clothes_ in general had never given him much trouble as they did since meeting Clarke. Folding his clothes into a nearby chair, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t thinking about the Courier at all, but when he turned towards the nearest tub, still damp around the carpet, all he could see was pruned feet stepping over the floor, drops of water beading down pale, sinewy legs to wet the ground. Stepping over to it’s edge, he swallowed dryly to see a few long, dark strands laying across the back lip, as if she had rested her head against the porcelain while soaking in the claw-footed tub.

“Motherfucker,” he mumbled to himself but turned the taps anyways, the rumbling of the pipes loud for a moment until settling into a watery hum. He stepped into the tub before the water had a chance to lap at the back curve, sitting heavily and drawing his knees up against the chill of the porcelain, wrapping his arms around his legs. Boone felt not unlike a child sitting there, curled around himself in a self-soothing type of pose. It wasn’t until the steaming water covered his feet that he loosened his grip on himself, leaning against the back of the tub just as he had envisioned Clarke doing in this very spot not two hours prior. His head hung over the lip, but he imagined that she was petite enough to be cradled completely within the tub. Hell, she could have probably fit into the space between Boone’s knees, back to chest, deep and wide as the basin was.

The sniper jolted upright, splashing in the water with a fair bit of indignation, not longer quite ready to relax. More likely than not, the Courier _hadn’t_ spent her time bathing thinking about Boone being naked and in the very same tub, but he couldn’t help but wonder, curiosity tugging at his mind like an impatient child.

Had she scrubbed herself down, utilitarian and cursory, like she had at the Tops Casino, still in her Vault Suit? Or had she taken her time, soaking away the dirt and grime that she may have missed the day before? Maybe she had been diligent and thorough, not knowing when her next bath would come around that wasn’t sand and dried horse nettle. That was probably what she had done, carefully and methodically cleaning every inch of herself; Boone could just see her picking the dirt from underneath her toenails with a pocket knife and giving her hair a proper wash for the first time since they had met. He gave a half-disgusted laugh, finally leaning back and closing his eyes. With his own bathwater quickly turning a murky grey, he thought about how Clarke’s might have been a bit clearer due to her quick dips that past day, but he was already having to lean forward to drain his bath.

Boone reached for the soap keep and grabbed a vaguely misshapen puck of soap. It had a yellowed green cast to it, like a tallow candle, and when he brought it to his nose, he smelled rosemary and the light scent of lilac verbena. This wasn’t the antiseptic smelling soap that lay in perfect pristine white next to the faucets on the sinks. He smelled it again, lathering it between his hands and running his fingers across the rough, oily surface. Clarke had probably acquired it through Sunny Smiles, back in Goodsprings. Soap was a luxury item out in the wasteland, not many people had the skill these days to make it on the frontier. Most of it was bars of scentless detergent sent from back out west in the heart of California, a harsh, all-in-one castile that dried your skin and hair and left you wondering why you had bothered bathing in the first place. Soap made from rendered fat and lye was a coveted thing in the Mojave, especially perfumed soaps, leaving behind pleasant scents that could linger for days. 

Boone knew Clarke’s scent, dusty metal and sweat, the smell of old blood that clung to her hands and hair that marked her for the combatant she was; he’d even admit that he kind of liked it. It made his stomach twist in a way that he wouldn’t describe as unpleasant whenever he had the chance to be close to her. He wondered how he would feel if he gathered up her long, choppy hair and it smelled soft and woodsy instead of oily and familiar. Would it be easier to distance himself, or harder?

Groaning, Boone reached down with one hand and grabbed himself under the water, already half hard. What the hell was wrong with him? He had traveled with women in the past, with the NCR, and he’d never found himself struggling to remain platonic with any of them, let alone find himself hard and aching over a bar of soap and the thought of their hair. But… but he’d never traveled alone with a woman like Clarke. Even with Carla, they’d been accompanied by his ever present shadow, Manny. That had to be it, alone and close to her, it created a false sense of intimacy. If their duo became a group, this crush would leave as quickly as it appeared. 

‘ _So… so it’s okay to indulge, right?_ ’ Boone thought, glancing around himself at the extravagant bathroom, opal and gold inlaid fixtures, as much hot water as he could want, comfort and luxury, this entire experience was an indulgence. What was one more? He shifted himself above the water and reached down with one slick, soapy hand, letting out a quiet hum of pleasure. 

It would be after some crazy idea of hers, one of those stunts that left him stunned that they even survived at all. Something like raiding a Legion camp with nothing but her machete and his rifle. Hell, why not make it Fortification Hill, like she jokingly promised him? They would cut through Legion troops together and she would be beautiful, an angel of vengeance, face flecked with Legion blood. The camp would be decimated by the time they were done, Caesar dead, and when he saw her through the destruction he wouldn’t be able to help himself. 

Just a few strides would bring her close enough for him to reach out and grab her, one hand looping through that low, messy bun she kept her hair in and the other gripping her waist to pull her against him. The kiss would be hot and hard and her rough lips would taste like copper, yet pliant and sweet under his. He’d nudge her legs apart with one knee and settle his body flush against hers, letting her feel how hard he was for her. Clarke would wrap her calloused hands around the back of his neck, making small sounds into the kiss that would break down whatever self control he had left, squirming against him with gasps and moans. He’d lift her up against him easily to press her against the nearest surface – a table, bench, fuck, he’d press her body into the bloody ground to grope for the zipper of that torturously tight Vault Suit to get her skin underneath his hands. There wouldn’t be a modest linen camisole under her suit, no barrier between his eyes and her body, it would just be pale flesh and scars and small breasts tipped with dusky nipples. His hands would completely engulf her soft breasts, petite like the rest of her, and she’d moan breathily when he dragged his fingers across them, touching every inch of her. She’d smell like gun oil and blood.

Clarke would reciprocate his touches, too. Tugging on his shirt and splaying her hands across his belly and chest, he’d be surprised that someone that was so deadly just minutes ago could touch him the way she was, running her fingers through the sparse hair on his rigid stomach and chest. She’d push his shirt up and over his head and she’d look at him with those damn blue eyes like she did at the Wrangler, like she was seeing him as a man instead of a sniper. The effect would be the same, desire would surge up from his gut but this time he wouldn’t have to wrestle it away. He would peel her suit off of the rest of her body with eager hands just as her fingers were fumbling with his belt and he’d finally have her bare before him, every inch of her within his touch, and fuck, would he touch her.

It would happen in a blur, and then he’d find himself nestled between her legs, looking her in the eye with his hands fisted in her hair as he rocked back and forth, teasing the both of them. She’d be flushed with lust and adrenaline, wet and ready for him. When he finally slid into her, it’d feel electric. 

Boone let out a moan before gritting his teeth against it as he came, knuckles on one hand white from gripping the side of the tub, breath coming hard and fast as spots filled his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut as his dick pulsed in his hand, his entire body trembling as he rode out the waves of pleasure and couldn’t stop gasping, “Ahh ah,” as he dragged his slick hand over the hypersensitive skin.

“Fuck,” Boone mumbled, rubbing his clean hand over his face, stubble scratching at his palm. He couldn’t even handle the _thought_ of being with Clarke. What the hell was wrong with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a late holiday present for y'all! I've spent eleven chapters blowing them up, stabbing them with cazadores, taunting them with the cold, clamy hands of death, so I decided to write some gratuitous fanservice! I hope you enjoyed!


	13. Do Securitrons Dream of Electric Sheep?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. 
> 
> So my mother passed away Wednesday March 7th and it was relatively unexpected. This chapter was obviously written beforehand. I'm not sure how this will effect updates - I might wrap myself up to the eyebrows and sleep on my face for the next month, or maybe I'll turn into a whirling dervish of creativity, or maybe I'll cuddle with my kid and watch Doctor Who for the next year. I just don't know.
> 
> Rest assured, I WILL finish this story, but mourning comes first.
> 
> Thank you all.

Clarke struggled to keep the horrified expression off of her face as Mr. House boasted while his Securitrons turned into weapons of mass destruction right in front of her eyes. The Strip was the most secure place in the Mojave, and this was more than protection, this was about domination. Mr. House had a thumb and he had a very specific idea of who – and what – should be under it, apparently. The pompous dick. At least she knew that she was dealing with a man of flesh and blood – no artificial intelligence would be half as full of itself as Mr. House was. This was a man of flesh and bone.

His voice sounded so proud, so sure of himself as he gave his demonstration, so impressed with himself that he didn’t stop to think that the Courier wouldn’t be in awe of his incredible military prowess as well. Here, Mr. House had built himself an army. Now why would a man who peddled to the flesh need an army for? None of it sat well with her and suddenly she was uncomfortable with the part she played in delivering the chip into the hands of such a power hungry man. What had she done? Blood would be on her hands if he went to war with the rest of the Mojave. Mr. House himself said that she would be in the center of his ‘cascade’.

Clarke listened silently, up until he order her blithely both across the river and up to Nellis, echoing the orders that she had already gotten, and that she already didn’t like. “Hold on hold on hold on, wait one motherfucking minute. Did you miss the part where I kind of shot a Legion soldier in broad daylight yesterday? Did none of your Securitron friends see fit to inform you? Caesar isn’t exactly going to welcome me with open arms after that stunt, I’m sorry to say. No, you’re going to have to find someone else to take the Chip to the Fort, I can’t do it. It’s too dangerous, House.”

“I wasn’t surprised to find that they have spies within my city, and you’ve just made certain that they’d be much more discrete in their dealings in the future. I’ve seen what you can do, and it seems that you weather danger… well, if I may say. Besides, Caesar won’t let the loss of one measly Frumentarii get in the way of what he truly wants to get his hands on. If he takes exception to it, tell him you assumed it was customary to shoot the messenger,” Mr. House said, mocking. The Courier wasn’t sure if he even realized that everything that came out of his stupid speakers made him seem like he was a giant pile of shit, instead of probably a ghoul or a brain in a jar. Nope, Mr. House was a giant, breathing, talking pile of shit.

“Why not contact NCR ambassadors with this? I mean, sure, they’re pretty incompetent but I’m sure a solid treaty…” Clarke didn’t even finish her thought before House was interrupting her. 

“No no no, the NCR, the NCR doesn’t want treaties or peace, if they had the resources, they’d turn their meager little army onto _me_ ,” House seethed while the Courier raised one dubious eyebrow. Sure, the NCR probably craved to annex the city, but Clarke doubted they would go to war over it the Strip. They would be adopting all of the problems that came along with Freeside, Westside, the Fiends and the Raiders. With a sweet enough pot, the NCR would be the biggest ally Mr. House could find against Caesar’s Legion, but he didn’t seem to take much exception to the army of slaves. Clarke didn’t like that. “The Legion will be taken care of, but the NCR is a more pressing and insidious threat!”

“Yeah,” the Courier mumbled, glancing around. “Right inside your own walls, right?”

“I knew you had the mind for this,” House preened. He was so proud of himself.

“Yeah, well, I’m just one person. If you want me to wander around the Mojave and make contact with these tribes and survive Fortification Hill, I need time to build a team. A few people I can trust, you know, to keep me alive,” Clarke responded, her mind going a mile a minute. This could stall him, stall him for weeks or months while she gathered information on how to untangle the mess she had inadvertently just made by handing over the Chip to a paranoid megalomaniac, only for him to hand it right back.

“You have that NCR veteran. He doesn’t fulfil your requirements?”

“Boone?” Clarke laughed nonchalantly, doing as little as possible to betray the depth of her relationship with the sniper. “He’s a good soldier, but I don’t think he’d be able to keep his finger off of the trigger on the Hill. Really, there’s a lot of resentment there, between the NCR and the Legion. The don’t get along. Didn’t know if you noticed.”

Mr. House ignored her sarcastic remarks. “Find yourself your ‘team’, then. In the mean time, I expect you to make contact with at least some of the tribes we’ve spoken about today.”

“Yessir,” The Courier saluted the oversized screen sarcastically and pivoted, eager to be far, far away from Mr. House and his machinations. She didn’t even pause when he called for her again.

“Oh, and Courier. Do try not to die out there with my Chip, will you?”

* * *

Boone seemed irritated when Clarke finally returned to the Presidential Suite. Not at her in particular, she didn’t think, just a general air of bitchiness that went beyond his usual stoic annoyance. She found him tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, sitting on his ass with his knees up and arms draped over his legs, a box of Sugar Bombs in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His rifle was propped up on the wall next to him and the clasp that held his combat knife in it’s holster hung free, as if he were waiting for an ambush. Those dark aviators hid his eyes, but he raised an eyebrow and grunted when he saw her pop her head into the room; she responded with a smile. He grunted again.

“You look like you’re pretty ready to get outta this place, whattaya say?” Clarke asked, gripping the doorframe to keep herself upright as she leaned as far into the room as possible. When she was nearly horizontal, Boone’s lips twitched upward and he stood with a groan that belied how long he had been sitting in that corner waiting for her return. “We’ll drop by Mick and Ralph’s on our way outta the city for ammo and miscellany, then see if we can’t convince Julie to part with a few stimpaks. Do you think House will notice if we start syphoning off his water to the Followers?”

Boone slipped past her into the hallway, not bothering to answer. Her bag was on the floor, pack neatly with their canteens full and weapons on end table, it’s pot of decorative succulents on the floor next to it. Clarke was surprised to see the beautifully ornate 9mm sitting there along with her machete; she snatched it up and held it up to the light, inspecting the grip and barrel for any marks or scuffs from yesterday’s scuffle. There were none. Impressive. It was a surprise to see the gun intact at all. “ _Nuestra Señora De Guadalupe_ , “ she said reverently, inspecting the Old World Saint. The gaze of the Mother of God was sweet, her soft eyes kind and her lips painted into a bow, and Clarke barked a laugh that had a touch of hysteria to it. Why hadn’t she noticed it yesterday? Maybe the copious amounts of booze had knocked free some of her lost memories, but really, she hadn’t taken herself as the religious type.

“What, what is it?” Boone asked, sounding concerned, stepping close but then stopping short as if he were afraid that she might shoot him if he touched her. The Courier shook her head and held the 9mm in her palm loosely, keeping her fingers away from both the hammer and trigger. Impulsive and brash, yes, but she wasn’t unstable.

“Benny, he – hah, Boone, he tried to shoot me with _Santa Marîa_. The Virgin Mary, Boone,” Clarke was trying to keep from laughing, she really was, so she started to buckle her new harness around her shoulders and under her breasts, very aware of Boone’s eyes while she chuckled to herself.

“I don’t know what that means,” Boone said plainly, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and grabbing his own side arm, still looking concerned.

The Courier cleared her throat. “At the end of the world, there’s supposed to be this young woman, this Saint Virgin Mary. She’s attacked by this monster with seven… mouths? Heads? Something to that tune, but long story short, she survives. I don’t really remember how the story ends, but I’d really like to think that she got to chop off a few of those heads,” she explained, hefting her pack onto her back. “She is the Patron Saint of all humanity, but especially those particularly down on their luck.”

“So this Virgin protected you? It wasn’t Benny’s shitty shooting?”

Clarke laughed, pounding the call button for the elevator with her fist. “No, don’t get me wrong, it was _definitely_ Benny’s shitty shooting.”

The conversation remained relatively light as they strolled out of the casino and away from the Strip, Clarke filling the gaps between Boone’s one word sentences with Biblical explanations, filling him in on the particular irony of the figure inlaid in the grip of her new side-arm. Walking through Freeside, though, Boone stepped closer to her elbow to hover close, practically crowding the Courier and giving her a particularly intense look over the top of his sunglasses. “What did House say?” he asked quietly.

“Er, well,” she stuttered, shifting her pack lightly and patting her heart, where she had tucked the Chip and it’s silk kerchief into her suit, just feeling the weight of the innocuous little thing. “We’re a few caps richer, that’s for fuckin’ sure. Oh, and House used the Chip to turn his Securitrons into a bonafide fuckin’ army, isn’t that great? Also, he’s fucking _crazy_ , Boone.”

The answering glance was concerned, but predictably silent, so Clarke continued. “I still have it. The Chip. The crazy bastard gave it back to me after he upgraded his robot army.”

“Why?”

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, the young woman sighed heavily. “There’s a bunker with more Securitrons that he wants me to activate for him. It’s… well, it’s under Fortification Hill. The fuck thinks that I’ll just be able to, I dunno, waltz the fuck up into a Legion camp?” A glance over to the sniper showed a strained look on his face, his lips digging deep into his cheeks, making him look severe, almost angry. Clarke lowered her voice.

“Hey,” she reached out to touch the back of his hand lightly and he didn’t stop her. “Honest, though… I managed to buy us some time. We’re on our way to the Crimson Caravan Company to look for some work and maybe make some friends around the Mojave. I told House that I needed an entourage; he was egotistical enough to buy it.”

Boone was silent for a long time after that, standing quietly behind the Courier as she bartered with Mick to fill their ammo bags, then buying up their stock of brahmin jerky and trail mix. It wasn’t until after they left the Old Mormon Fort did he speak again. “Will we run from House?”

Shock caused Clarke to stumble as she whipped her head around to look at the sniper. “W—what? No, I, uh,” she wasn’t quite sure what to say. There was no way in hell that she would ask him to abandon his home, the NCR, to risk his life to steal the Chip from one of the most powerful men in the world. Was he saying that he would? Heat started to creep up the Courier’s neck – it could be the premise of a terrible romance novel, the two of them escaping from the clutches of an ambiguously malicious, mysterious figure, turning their backs on the war between the Bear and the Bull to fulfill their own selfish desires. No. “No, I think I can fix this.”

Boone’s response was so quiet, Clarke strained to hear it. “Whatever you do, I’ve got your six.”

* * *

In all his years of living in the Mojave, Boone had never actually been to the Crimson Caravan compound. Despite the dangerous neighborhood, it was lively and bustling within the thick walls. It smelled of brahmin and dirt, and was pleasant enough. Right up until a caravaneer rushed up behind Clarke, grabbing her arm to whirl her around. The hilt of his combat knife was in his hand before her hair had a chance to settle around her face. “It’s you!” the dark haired man exclaimed, a huge grin on his face.

The smile that Clarke responded with had Boone pressing his knife back into it’s sheath with his fist and a sour feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The man’s hand didn’t move from her upper arm, instead just relaxing into a comfortable hold – Boone wanted to tear his hand off. “Ringo,” she greeted, looking up at the man through her eyelashes. So this was the caravaneer that the Courier had helped escape from Goodsprings with his life. He was tall and handsome with olive skin and eyes so dark they were black, and those eyes were looking at Clarke appreciatively, who didn’t seem at all displeased.

“I’m glad you came by, I was beginning to think that I wouldn’t see you before I left the Mojave,” the caravaneer said warmly, his thumb stroking down the back of Clarke’s arm. Fire started to burn in the back of Boone’s throat and he recognized the heavy feeling of jealousy in his chest. “Here to see me, or…?”

The Courier laughed breathily and shook her head, her look soft. “I’m here for work, actually,” she answered, glancing towards Boone. “My friend and I are looking to rustle up some caps. Maybe you could put in a good word with the bosses?”

“I’m getting ready to run a caravan up to Utah. There’s a prosperous little settlement called New Canaan, I’ll be setting up our branch out there. I could use a gun hand with your skills, if you’re interested,” Ringo offered. Boone couldn’t stop the scowl that settled on his face, not missing the obvious implication there. This man was asking the Courier to come with him, far away from the Mojave, without extending the invitation to Boone. His heart beat a little harder in his chest. Clarke had told him that they weren’t running from Mr. House, but Boone didn’t think that she had ever looked at him the way that she was looking at Ringo. Like she might want to go. Maybe he was just insecure.

“I was hoping for something more, you know, local, my friend,” she laughed, and relief washed over Boone like a cool river. Ringo finally spared the sniper a shrewd glance, his smile freezing on his face for a moment before looking back down to Clarke. It was enough to make Boone curl his lips upwards in a petty grin, up until Ringo very deliberately put one hand on the small of Clarke’s back and steered her towards one of the longhouses.

“Then let me introduce you to Alice, the big boss. She’s already heard some stories, but I think she’ll be even more impressed with the real thing,” he explained, gesturing towards the office. Hanging back a few feet, Boone followed a few paces behind the two, simmering with indignant anger towards Ringo and the presumptive way he placed his hands on the Courier. Yeah, he was a little bit jealous, too. Last night, _he_ had been the one with his hand on her back, her warm body underneath his fingers. It had taken him weeks to build up that sort of courage; weeks and five beers and four-or-so shots of top shelf tequila. Clarke’s fingers had been _inside_ him, underneath his skin, pretty much as close as two humans could possibly be, and still he struggled with that easy familiarity with the Courier that seemed to come so naturally to this perfect stranger. Just like that damn Followers doctor with the ridiculous name.

Inside the office, the caravaneer introduced Clarke to a white haired woman in a dress suit that was much too fashionable for the Mojave. “Ms. McLafferty, this is the Courier of the Mojave Express that I told you about,” he said, and Boone felt a small surge of shameless pleasure; the smarmy asshole probably didn’t even know Clarke’s name. ‘ _Take **that** for familiarity, you shit _,’ Boone thought as he meandered over to an armchair to sit while the Courier talked shop, and it was nice to see Ringo quickly pushed out of the conversation.__

____

The sniper was content to watch the Courier as she confidently negotiated a hefty sum of caps for a job that provided them with a long, meandering journey across the desert that would just conveniently allow them to check up on all of the settlements and outposts that Clarke had helped during her bumbling first journey to New Vegas. It could even provide her with opportunities to gather more ‘friends’ throughout the Mojave while she reinforced the relationships that she had already established. Smart woman. Boone wondered if she even realized what she was doing, forging allyships where ever she traveled. There would be plenty of safe, free beds and shared meals during their travels.

“I must note,” Alice raised her voice slightly, nodding when Boone turned his eyes towards her, “That this price isn’t per employee, you’ll have to divide the sum between yourselves.”

Boone rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses; Clarke provided him with food in his belly, stimpaks for his injuries, ammo for his rifle, and Legionnaires to kill. He didn’t need anything else, all he could ever want was taken care of, and then Clarke took care of speaking for him, as usual. One of his favorite parts of this job, really. “Oh, that’s fine. We’re a team,” she said, flashing him one of her brilliant smiles, Ringo’s face darkening slightly from behind her shoulder from where he had taken to leaning against a desk. That’s right. Ringo was just one of the many people that she just couldn’t walk past, he was one of the people that owed Clarke his life while she disappeared back into Wasteland as fast as she had appeared. _Boone_ was the one traveling by her side, he was the one who had carried her, dying, from Novac to Goodsprings, she was the one who saved his life just days later and dragged his sorry ass to the Followers, was by her side with a bullet at the ready to kill Benny if she couldn’t. No one else. They were a _team_.

Ringo sat there and sized up the sniper from across the room as the conversation sifted back to Clarke’s responsibilities as an employee of the company. This was truly her element, creating allies out of nothing, and Boone tried to focus on actually listening, but he couldn’t help but let his gaze wander over to the other man in the room, who met his look with a determined glare of his own. This wasn’t at all Arcade Gannon’s blank stares from across the courtyard, as if Boone were a science experiment to figure out, or maybe an idiot, this was an aggressive stare, as if Boone were an actual challenger here. Had the Courier found a bit of comfort in Ringo’s bed before she left Goodsprings? Maybe he had been hoping to rekindle something with her, but her arrival with Boone implied an unexpected obstruction in his path to Clarke’s arms.

Boone let himself give a half-cocked smile as he looked at Ringo over the top of his sunglasses, letting whatever implications that there were hang in the air. He stopped just short of waggling his eyebrows at the disgruntled caravaneer, despite the urge to goad his imagination on. ‘ _Go ahead and wonder,_ ’ Boone thought. Whatever assumptions that Ringo made were his, let him have them.

Finally reaching an agreement with Alice, Clarke shook hands with her and turned to Boone, nodding her head towards the door. “We’ve burnt a lot of daylight today, but if we hoof it, we can probably make it to the Grub n’ Gulp before dark. Bolder City if you feel like sprinting all of the way.”

Boone rose to his feet, shouldering his rifle. “The Grub n’ Gulp it is,” he agreed, relieved.

“If you’d like to rest for a night, we have the accommodations,” Ringo chimed in, stepping up close enough to crowd the Courier before Boone could take his place at her side. “The Fiends start up pretty early in these parts, might be safer for you.”

The laugh that Clarke gave was a nervous one as she shuffled a few steps back, raising her hands up between herself and the caravaneer almost defensively, whose face was already falling. “No, no, I’d like to make decent time down to the Outpost, thank you for the offer, though, really.”

Alice made a noise that sounded somewhat of approval. “I like that work ethic,” she said before waving her hand to dismiss all three of them like children.

“Well, in that case, let me walk you to the gates,” Ringo offered with a tight little smile as he opened the door for the Courier, stepping aside to let her leave first and then flashing a dark look in Boone’s direction, which the sniper ignored. The caravaneer would be in their dust before long and they would be back on the road, just like Boone wanted, and Clarke didn’t seem to mind leaving the handsome man behind, which was all the better. Boone even found that Ringo’s hand settling between the Courier’s shoulder blades gently barely bothered him. Barely. ‘ _She knows how to walk, asshole_ ,’ he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.

At the gates, Ringo stopped and turned towards Clarke, grabbing both her hands in his, much like he had grabbed at her arm earlier, and started running a thumb over the back of one hand. Hanging back a few feet, Boone rolled his eyes and fingered the frayed strap of his rifle, wondering if he could somehow punch the other man without anyone noticing. When the caravaneer began to speak, the sniper shuffled forward, very stealthily, to eavesdrop.

“You blow in like the wind, you know that?” he was saying, and Boone immediately tightened, his grip on his rifle strap, lips going hard. ‘ _No,_ ’ he was thinking, ‘ _she’s my force of nature. You have **no idea** what she is. She isn’t like the wind, she’s a fucking hurricane._ ’

The nervous laugh that bubbled up out of Clarke’s mouth wasn’t charming at all, coming out in a strange, ‘wuh-huh-huh-huh,’ sound. “Blow in on the wind, more like it,” she said, shifting her eyes back and forth anxiously, as if she wasn’t really sure if she wanted to hold his hands or not. “I just go where I’m needed, I guess, and right now I need caps,” she lied. Boone knew that they didn’t need caps, her rugged leather purse was much heavier than it had been the day prior when she had two thousand caps. He could just imagine what her payout had been for delivering the Chip to House, it was possible that she was now one of the wealthiest wastelanders in the entire Mojave.

Ringo answered her laugh with what sounded like an insincere chuckle and stepped in closer, bending his head down to speak quietly, close to the Courier’s ear. “Well, I’ll be back from Utah in ‘bout a month’s time. I suspect that you’ll still be blowing around the Mojave by the time I get back. Do you think your winds could blow you my way again?”

This time, Clarke did slowly slide her hands out from under Ringo’s and shuffled from one foot to the other, casting Boone a quick glace before lifting one shoulder in one of her signature shrugs. “I can’t say, friend,” she said lightly, “but it was nice to see that you made it here from Goodsprings and didn’t die. I’m glad.”

Ringo looked like a kicked dog was Clarke said her goodbyes while side-stepping up to the gate, and she looked almost relieved when the corrugated metal slid shut behind them.

Staying quiet had never been a struggle for Boone; his entire life, he had been a man of few words. He was never struck with profound curiosity or any deep abiding need to learn, but somehow, someway, he found himself biting his tongue to keep himself silent. Clarke did strange things to him, but this was by far the strangest. Every time he glanced at her he wanted to prod her with questions, something so out of character that he should have had an easy time biting his tongue, but, no. It was a struggle, and he lost his short fight with himself as they walked past the Gun Runners. “So…Ringo?”

The Courier gave an awkward wail and buried her face in her hands immediately, shaking her head. “Oh my fucking gahh-d,” she stage whispered before looking up at Boone with a very embarrassed, vaguely pained looked. “Listen, no, wait. Was that as painful to watch as it was for me? I swear, my fucking soul physically left my goddamn body to be as far away from my dumb ass as possible. ‘ _I’m glad you didn’t die_ ’, what the fuck is that even?!”

“Sure do have a way with words, kid,” Boone deadpanned. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky, casting long shadows around the pair, slowly creating perfect hiding places for Raiders or Fiends, but the sniper was still glad to be away from the Crimson Caravan Company. Besides, the two of them could handle whatever the Mojave could throw at them.

“Yah _think_?” she snarked back, casting him a grin that told him that she wasn’t actually annoyed. “Man, I’m pretty sure I fuckin’ spit on him when I laughed, dear _fuck_ I hope I never run into him again. I’ll just have to shoot myself to spare myself the shame if we end up at the Crimson Caravan at the same time.” She pushed up her cap to scratch at her scalp. “So much shame.”

Boone let himself chuckle quietly at her dramatics, rolling his eyes. Gone was the mild mannered diplomat; this was the foul-mouthed, machete wielding girl who rained destruction down upon the Legion without any attempt at diplomacy. It was fine when she was polite and well mannered, but he much preferred her swearing and ridiculous antics. When she was smiling, she lost that haunted look that would settle on her face during extended silences or the long hours of the night. She eagerly filled the spaces that Boone left silent, not allowing him to wallow in his own mind. It gave a delirious sort of harmony to his life, this verbose, vibrant charmer to balance his quiet, stoic brooding. Sometimes she almost made him forget that he was a murderer.

Sundown saw them traveling at a brisk jog, cutting through burnt out ruins and over cracked highway in a straight line to the Grub n’ Gulp, where ten caps bought them a bed for the night. Boone offered to take first watch, citing Clarke’s overindulgence from the previous night as to why she should be the one to stretch out on the dusty mat first. It didn’t take much convincing to have her throwing herself down onto the mattress none too gently, tossing her cap to the side and pillowing her head in her arms with a groan. Boone could have meandered out of the shack to take watch near the road, or park himself next to Clarke’s feet, but he found himself lowering his body down to sit at the head of the bed, close enough to touch her hair if he wanted.

He didn’t, though.

* * *

It all came in waves. The heat of the night pressing into his nose and his lungs that made his breath come out in quiet puffs of air with the rocky ground pressing into his chest and the loud static crackle of the radio in his ear even though he was feet away from the communication officer. The way his commanding officer was bellowing orders like they were being torn from her throat and the shrieks and screams of children and the weeping of mothers and the meaty thumps of dead bodies hitting the packed sand passage. He saw their face, all those faces…

“..oone? Boone?” Hands were on his arms and his shoulders and shaking him gently; he twisted away from them and pushed away from the body over his, disoriented and tangling his arms up in theirs. “Craig Boone, it’s me, fuck,” Clarke whispered, pressing his arms down against the mattress.

The dream was still vivid in his mind, the images burned into the back of his eyelids, and he opened his eyes, almost physically pained. “Bitter…” he mumbled, trying to focus on the Courier’s face in the low light. Everything was bitter. Bitter Springs would haunt him for the rest of his life. Was there blood on his tongue?

“Bitter?” She sounded concerned and a hand moved to his neck, where she must have felt his pulse hammering against his throat frantically under her thumb. “Boone, are you okay? You were mumbling something and near fuckin’ freaked when I tried to wake you up.”

There was moisture clinging to the corners of his eyes and he shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to ignore the tears, hoping that Clarke didn’t notice. “No… no,” he muttered. Now was not the time. “Just…’m just dreaming. Don’t call me Craig.”

“I’m sorry, man, but you scared the fuckin’ piss outta me,” she sounded contrite, drawing her warm hands away and Boone suddenly regretted his sharp words. “You just didn’t seem to recognize me for a second there.”

“ ‘m sorry,” he murmured, and meant it. “Dawn?”

“At least another hour, my good man,” Clarke said. “You should try to grab some more shut-eye if you can.”

The sniper made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat and settled back into the mattress, staring up at the patched roof of the shack overhead, willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest. Every beat of his heart sent a dull throb through his jaw and into his temples. He could feel Clarke, hear her shift against the rickety wall with a sigh, and he imagined that he would be able to smell rosemary and lilac if he were closer.

He wanted to touch her. Feel that she was real and ground himself, convince himself that he wasn’t back on that ridge with rocks digging into his clavicle and a heavy regulation rifle in his hands. They were alone, too, the rest of the dirty mattresses laying empty, and it was early enough in the morning hours that Fitz and Lupe were nowhere to be seen.

When he reached up, his hand butted against her arm in a gentle punch, but when he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, she didn’t draw away or move at all; she kept her hand planted in the dirt next to the mattress and her eyes didn’t stop their careful tracking of the desert around them. Someday he would have to find a way to thank her for her bouts of selective stoicism, those times where he needed and she wordlessly gave.

When he woke up some hours later, she still hadn’t moved.

* * *

Clarke had been worried that Boone would become awkward and distant when he woke up after spending half her watch clinging to her arm like a lifeline, but he rose easily and didn’t particularly try to avoid her, even going so far as to lay a hand on her shoulder as they took off south on highway 95 after she explained their route for the day. She wanted them to reach Novac by sundown without running themselves ragged, wanting to conserve energy for the last leg of their journey outside of the New Vegas suburbs, out in the wilds where the true dangers lurked. Boone never really seemed to question her leadership, content to take orders as long as they aligned with his own moral compass, which she appreciated beyond words, but then he would do things like touch her shoulder tenderly as silent agreement with her plans, or look at her over the tops of his ever present sunglasses with his intense gazes, and she’d kind of forget where the lines were. The two were friends, right? Close colleagues if someone wanted to be coy, nothing more.

So why had she been so quick to brush off Ringo? The offer to bunk at the Crimson Caravan Company would have been pretty enticing a few weeks ago, fuck, it _should_ have been enticing when Ringo offered the day prior. But all she could think of was Boone’s rigid spine and lips set into a stony line, clearly uncomfortable within the compound, and how much she wanted him at her back while they blazed a trail of glory all the way to the Mojave Outpost. They’d get into a bunch of really fun trouble, and Ringo just seemed so _boring_ in that moment.

The, admittedly handsome as fuck, man would have her babysitting a caravan as it slogged it’s way up to Utah, spending half her time minding ornery pack brahmin, while she had the entire exciting Mojave right underneath her boots. Of course, and Clarke snuck a glance at Boone as she thought this, the sniper at her side would race across the desert with her at the suggestion of gunning down some Legionnaires, instead of hiding out in a gas station and having someone else fake his death for him. As selfish as it may have been, she didn’t want to travel with anyone that she would have to constantly protect.

The duo made fast time down the cracked concrete, coming up to the 188 Trading Post not an hour after setting out, only encountering a solitary rad scorpion in that time, and Clarke found herself hassling a Gun Runner trader, trying to convince him to buy and sell to her. After a few snappy words back and forth, the man acquiesced and motioned the okay to his guards to show the wares, which the Courier perused eagerly, sifting through scopes and weapon mods long enough that Boone lost interest and meandered away from the trader to glare at birds or something. When she was satisfied that his attention was elsewhere, she poked through the bolt-action rifle modifications. Boone’s rifle was old and well loved, and Clarke wouldn’t presume to replace it without permission, but she could certainly buy him a stock that didn’t need to be duct taped on.

What Alice had said about payment had sent guilt straight to her gut; Boone had quit an honest job to follow her whimsy across the Mojave and she had gone and pocketed all of the caps they had earned in the meantime, like a fucking asshole. One of Mr. House’s more creepy Securitrons, one with a feminine voice and an equally misplaced disembodied woman’s head on it’s screen, had paid her several _thousand_ caps for some of the junk that she had unthinkingly pocketed throughout her trek throughout the desert – two thousand caps each for some whimsical little snow globes. Boone was entitled to at least a portion of it, along with fun toys and a nice polished stock that they could modify onto his rifle when they got to Novac. As for herself, she couldn’t resist the gleam of a beautiful riot shotgun that would perfectly fit her up-close and personal combat style. The barrel was a little long for her liking, but she could easily saw it down to length. It didn’t take much to convince herself that it was a worthwhile purchase. She was just closing up her pack when Boone came walking back at a brisk jog, his lips turned down slightly in a plainly concerned expression. “What’s wrong?”

The sniper jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That kid over there knows some shit,” he said, his voice tight.

Clarke straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “What kinda ‘shit’?”

“Heard about some fortune-teller at this post,” he explained. “Asked him about you – he said something about two to the skull. I think you should talk to him, but it’ll cost you caps.”

If it were anyone else, she would have called bullshit, nice prank, now shut up, let’s go, but Boone looked shaken and unsettled enough to put Clarke on edge herself. The boy himself didn’t look threatening, frail and malnourished with headgear wrapped around his skull. The Courier took him for lame until he shifted onto his knees to find a more comfortable position on his mat. 

She swiftly made her way over to him before she lost her nerve; this was just a child who had found a safe, clever way to make caps. Hell, he had probably recognized the two on sight and made a profoundly lucky guess when he said that she had been shot twice. “I want to buy a fortune,” she announced, standing over the boy with his hands on her hips.

The look she got was bemused and ancient, completely out of place on the young face. “I don’t sell fortunes, miss. I sell thoughts.”

“Oh,” she hadn’t expected that. “Okay, well, um, I would like to buy a thought, then?”

“I can think about lots of things, like you, here, everywhere, but it might be a little hard since your friend just bought a thought,” he explained. “I have to take off my medicine before I can think for you, and each thought costs one hundred caps.”

The Courier didn’t blink, shoving her hand into her purse and tossing down her payment. “Alright, let’s do ‘here’, since that should be easier for you,” she said. The thought to ask about herself had crossed her mind, but if this boy was truly some sort of psychic, she didn’t know if she wanted him poking around there.

“Sure miss,” the boy responded, lifting his hands slip his headgear off. He swayed slightly and his dark eyes went blank as his mouth started to move; he still sounded like himself but his voice was trance-like and hollow. “Local, local, the here and the now…little of interest for someone such as yourself…things to buy, dashed hopes… things to buy, hopeful hearts… regrets are watered down, washed down with broken canteens. With regret comes a girl… smiling sad in a brown robe, half here, half there, named Veronica. Wraps her heart up like a pack, in the pack, a key, some would say. Forecast; Cloudy with a chance of friendship.”

What Clarke wanted to say was, ‘what a crock of shit,’ or maybe something along the lines of, ‘that makes not one fuck of sense,’ but she didn’t. Instead she turned her eyes up to the overpass above her. “A chance of friendship, you say?”


	14. Democracy Inaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks goes out to ScrimshawPen for helping edit and revise this chapter! They helped transform what I felt was a medicore chapter into something that I'm quite happy with. 
> 
> They write some great Fallout fiction here on AO3, so y'all should go check them out.

Boone puttered around, trying not to appear as dejected as he felt. Clarke had moved well out of earshot, chatting up the young woman. She had breezed up onto the overpass not fifteen minutes after they had sat on broken concrete traffic barriers to share trail mix and gecko jerky. Clarke had just been complaining, loudly, about wasting a hundred caps around a mouthful of seeds and cereal when a girl in a brown robe came walking past the two, her entire body draped in the same drab brown fabric as her pack that hung empty off her back. The shock that left Clarke’s face frozen was worth letting her think that he was gullible for those fifteen minutes.

Boone had left her side earlier to meander around, taking in the trading post that he had traveled past many times but had never actually visited. On a whim, he wondered if perhaps the fortune-teller would be there to eat up the time it took for Clarke to finish ooh-ing and ahh-ing over weaponry. He nodded at the child on the mat, assuming that he was one of the many orphaned beggar children of the Mojave. “Is that fortune teller still ‘round these parts, kiddo?” he asked, only to have the boy laugh at him. Buying his predictions was expensive, but the psyker at the 188 Trading Post was rumored to have untold knowledge that was well worth his price.

The boy had explained that _he_ was the famed Forecaster, selling thoughts and predictions to those who traveled through the trading post. Boone didn’t want to hear about himself, or the trading post, or the Mojave; he had turned and nodded towards the Courier, bent over an open crate of munitions. “I wanna hear your thoughts about her,” he had said with absolute certainty.

When the boy took off his ‘medicine’, the transformation from boy to psychic was immediate and startling. “Her face…Her face does the thinking – two to the skull, yet one gets up. Odds are against her… but they’re just numbers to her after the two-to-one. She’s playing the hand she’s been dealt, but she won’t let it rest… she shuffles and stacks and gambles…Gambles that might pay off? …but how? Forecast; rapidly changing conditions.”

‘Thinking’ about Clarke left the boy in enough pain that he was moaning softly as he struggled with his gear; Boone knelt down and nudged the child’s hands straighter until the weird cap slid easily over his head. In truth, the sniper was a little disappointed. It didn’t seem that the Forecaster had told Boone anything that he didn’t already know. He already knew that Clarke was gambling; hell, he knew that she was gambling with their lives. Here she was, stacking their deck. Sure, it was impressive knowledge for a little boy to have, but the man had been hoping for something more. Just, more. The Forecaster surprised him when he spoke again.

“It doesn’t take any thinking to see that that wasn’t what you wanted to hear, though,” he mumbled perceptively, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Boone had nodded in agreement. “There’s just so much I don’t know,” he admitted with no small measure of dejection. This kid spoke in confusing riddles and parables; the sniper’s secrets were safe with him. Besides, no one would be interested in hearing about some washed up NCR veteran’s crush on a Courier with amnesia.

“There’s the divide in her… The Divide. It’s buried deep in two graves, but she carries it with her always,” the boy had said, head resting back against the dirty concrete as he waved one weak hand in Clarke’s general direction. She was still haggling with the Gun Runner some twenty yards away. “Thanks for helping.”

Boone had felt the air get sucked out of his lungs as his lips slammed shut, eyes bugging out behind his glasses in shock. Suddenly it made sense: why no one in the entire Mojave seemed to know who she was, why no one was missing the Courier of the Mojave Express who had been shot in the head in Goodsprings. She hadn’t been born of the Mojave, as Boone had whimsically daydreamed, she didn’t rise up out of the desert sands like some god – she was probably just a native of the Divide.

The NCR didn’t talk about the Divide, just as they didn’t talk about Bitter Springs; it was just another dirty NCR secret where civilians were caught in a blunder of the Republic. No one really knew what happened there, they just knew that those prosperous settlements popping up all over to the west of the Mojave were suddenly and violently destroyed just weeks after the Legion and the NCR had clashed over the trade routes. Entire platoons went MIA, lost to the Divide, never to be seen again. Handfuls of survivors and refugees had trickled into the Mojave after the earth swallowed up their entire lives, and almost all had succumbed to radiation poisoning before a straight story could be pieced together – or at least, that’s what Boone had heard. Was she one of the survivors?

The sniper had felt sick – he knew that, armed with the knowledge, Clarke would want to ignore the dangers of the Divide to return there, to try and uncover the secret of who she really was. That was when he had turned on his heel to grab the Courier’s attention, the weight of the Forecaster’s words too much to handle on his own. But instead of asking about herself, as Boone had assumed that she would, and of all things, she had wanted to know about the Trading Post.

The man let his eyes wander over to where the two women were sitting across from each other and chatting amicably. He hadn’t wanted to shoulder the responsibility of telling the Courier what she needed to know – he already had to brace himself for the next time she asked him about _his_ past, and now he had to contend with this. This was not his area of expertise; it wasn’t even in the same realm of reality. He shoved it all away when they shook hands and Clarke pushed herself up, followed by the other girl – Veronica? – before the Courier turned and motioned him over to the table with a wave. The other girl was slightly bulkier than his companion and at least a head taller, and Boone eyed the gauntlet strapped to her right hand. Power fists were nothing to sniff at, and if this girl decided that she had less than noble intentions, he’d be near useless at close range. Piston-assisted punches could break bones, shatter skulls, rupture organs, but it took a specific sort of person to be willing to get up close and personal enough to punch their enemies to death – just the sort of person that might get along nicely with a certain mail-courier with a penchant for machetes, small guns, and, occasionally, chairs.

Clarke threw one arm around his shoulders and gestured towards the burlap draped woman as she grinned cheekily at him; Boone rolled his eyes and sidestepped out from under her grip as she spoke, intensely aware of the tall woman’s eyes scrutinizing them, but the Courier didn’t seem to mind. “Boone, this is Veronica! We’re gunna do some prospecting together!”

So was this her plan? Build herself an army out of misfits that she gathered up from around the Mojave, like himself? That was… an incredibly dumb plan, even for her. Maybe she was counting on their own combat prowess to keep them safe if things went pear shaped. Maybe her brain had leaked out of her head last night, too. “Okay,” he said plainly. If the Courier wanted to get them punched to death for all of her caps, that was her decision. 

Veronica gave him a warm smile that he didn’t want to trust, but she didn’t try to shake his hand, which he appreciated. “Hiya,” she greeted with a small wave.

Clarke started clicking away at a dial on her Pip-Boy, then poked at the screen as she scrolled around her map. “So I wanted to take a look at that dry lake bed over by the El Dorado service station – ya’ know, the one that those raider-types were holed up in. It’s directly south of us and on our way to Novac. We don’t have anything to lose by taking a detour, right?”

* * *

Their haul out of the Vault was a slow and stumbling one that left Boone feeling like he was swimming through the air; he felt as if he was watching himself from slightly left of the back of his own head. A glance back at Clarke and Veronica showed the same haunted sort of look that he suspected was plastered across his own face. None of them looked back at the huge steel door slid shut behind them with metallic grinding, but he was sure they would all remember Vault 11 for years to come. 

Blood was leaking lazily out of a gash just above the sniper’s knee and the raw pain of laser burns stretched across his shoulders, where his shirt flapped uselessly against his back. The rest of his small group didn’t look much better. One side of Clarke’s face was already bloated, the skin stretched into a shiny pink mask with her eye swollen shut and blood still wet across her lips and down her neck, and Veronica was holding her left arm gingerly while she limped next to the Courier. Both women were bogged down by their heavy packs but were unwilling to part with any of their prospected goods, leaving the sniper to take point out of the damp cavern and into the bright midafternoon sun.

Their short trek through the dry lake was relatively uneventful, Boone picking off a small pack of wild dogs before they climbed back up onto the highway, heading south to Novac. Most of his doubts about Veronica’s intentions had evaporated somewhere around the third sentry bot, so the sniper was comfortable enough to creep well ahead of the pair, peering through the scope of his rifle before giving Clarke the okay with a wave over his head. The stretch of highway between them and Novac lay empty and barren, the El Dorado service station still abandoned after their first trip up to Vegas, all those weeks back. Old Lady Gibson’s junkyard came into view not long after that, with Dinky rising up from between the soft hills. As glad as he’d been to leave it behind, Boone almost felt relieved to see Novac, if only as a place to rest their heads.

The sun had yet to set by the time they wandered through the rusty gates of the town square and Clarke immediately took off up into Dinky with Veronica in tow, shouting a hoarse, “We’ll be right back!” in his direction before closing the door behind them. Off to trade with Cliff, no doubt, Boone thought while rolling his eyes, but he allowed himself a small smile – at least she didn’t drag him along this time. It gave him time to take care of his own business in town without the inevitable questions or offers to assist from the nosy Courier. The key to his bungalow was still in his pocket, and the little one-room cabin was dusty and dank from being closed up for all those long weeks since he’d last stepped over the threshold. It smelled like a tomb, which he guessed was pretty fitting. Everything the little cabin stood for, Carla, their marriage, their unborn baby, all of it was dead and had been for years. He was holding onto ghosts. 

It was quick work to gather what he wanted – Carla’s dresses that had stopped smelling like her a long time ago, her sparse collection of jewelry and pretty tchotchkes, and the three photographs from their meager time together – it all fit neatly back into the suitcase they had come here in. The battered luggage was leathery underneath his fingers, calling to mind memories that were starting to hurt less every day. He sat for what felt like an eternity on their dusty bed with that luggage on his knees, holding the letter that he had written his wife one night while he was on watch, penned in his messy writing and begging her forgiveness for Bitter Springs. Closing his eyes and folding the letter back up, he pressed a kiss to the paper and stood, tucking the letter into a pocket for safekeeping.

Discarding the evidence of his shame and grief seemed to take so much longer, though. He picked up each syringe gingerly, hands shaking as he threw them into the wastebasket that he carried under his arm. The needles were strewn across his floor, where he had tossed them, high and delirious, once he was done with them, peppered with inhalers and burnt spoons. It hadn’t mattered – buffout, jet, psycho – anything he could find, he would snort or shoot up; he would use anything he could to take away the hot pain that radiated from his back to claw at his chest. Chems were the bosom he buried himself in instead of facing down his own selfish cowardice. He preferred killing himself slowly with the drugs over dreaming of Carla’s face every morning he laid his head down on their cold bed in their silent bungalow.

Truth be told, he was glad to lock the door behind himself for the last time, tugging on the knob to shut it tight as he squinted through the early evening shadows. Grief was pushing like waves against the back of his throat, but it wasn’t crashing over him like a flood this time. When had it gone from a deluge to a trickle? 

Out in the common, Clarke was up on the balcony, the jingle of her keys ringing out in the quiet of the courtyard as she unlocked the door to her room, Veronica leaning heavily against the railing with both bags slung over her shoulder. The sniper raised his hand in a wave to the girl, who smiled and nodded back, turning over her shoulder to say something the Clarke, but Boone wasn’t quite ready to join his companions. He turned his back and hurried away before the Courier could swing her piercing eyes towards him.

Cliff was still inside Dinky when Boone approached the counter, setting his key ring down on the peeling Formica softly, and it didn’t take much haggling over the deed to come away from the deal a few caps richer. The house would sell quickly, Cliff assured him, and Boone felt glad for it. Soon it would be as if Craig Boone had never even lived in this town at all, and it would be all for the better. He could fade away into the Mojave on the heels of the Courier and never come back unless he wanted to, and it felt liberating.

Suitcase in hand, he made his way to Clarke’s motel room. When he entered the cool room, Veronica was bent over the Courier with healing salve in her hand – another gift from Sunny Smiles, most likely – smearing the grey paste across the smaller woman’s battered face. The self proclaimed bunker-raised girl had shed her sack robes, leaving her in a short sweater with no sleeves; even bandaged, the cut of her muscles was intimidating. It was obvious, now, how she had managed to beat a sentry bot into spare parts and walk away from it to see another day, and Boone struggled to keep distrust from bubbling back up into his mind. If the girl had wanted either of them dead or hurt, it would have been as easy as letting the both of them get gunned down by robots, or she could have snapped the Courier’s neck and run off with thousands of caps while Boone was otherwise occupied. Instead, she was tending to Clarke’s injuries, grey smudged fingers gentle, not deadly.

Clarke opened her one good eye when Boone closed the door, nodding her chin in his direction as a greeting. “Once Veronica here is done, I’ll take a stim or two to those burns on your back. We don’t need any more infections on our hands, and I’m sure Ada has more in stock that we can convince her to part with before we head out tomorrow.”

The sniper grunted in agreement and tossed his heavy sack of caps onto the bed before kneeling to tuck Carla’s suitcase underneath the faded boxspring. There it could stay, as safe as any other place in the Mojave; Clarke would respect his privacy, and the residents on Novac would respect hers. Boone’s possessions would be safe.

The couch creaked underneath him when he finally sat, letting out a tight groan under his breath as he buried his head in his hands. The soft cushions taunted Boone, but he didn’t dare sit back to relax properly. Pain lanced across his shoulders with every movement, making him hyper-aware of the oozing skin and exposed nerves. In all honesty, Boone was excited to be able to collapse down onto the couch and sleep uninhibited for the night; for all its failings, Novac was relatively safe, leaving no need for any of them to take watch, and if Veronica decided to kill them in their sleep, well, at least it would be a good sleep. 

Sleep must have taken him in spite of everything, because the next thing Boone knew, a hand was pressing into his shoulder to rock him gently awake. The ability to doze in almost any situation was one he had gained in his years with the NCR; it was important to catch any shut eye where one could find it, sitting in the mess hall, leaning against any vertical surface he could, or, as in this case, with his fists in his eyes and elbows balanced precariously on his knees. Clarke was still nudging him with her knuckles, and Boone spared her damaged face a cursory glance – the skin was a bit swollen, but Veronica seemed to have done a fine enough job tending to the wounds on the Courier’s face. When she was sure he was awake, she spared his shoulder a light squeeze before standing and turning to her pack. Veronica was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s your new friend?” he asked his companion, voice rough with sleep. 

Clarke smiled brightly at him over her shoulder as she pulled a few syringes from her pack. “I sent her off to the McBride’s with a generous handful of caps to rustle us up a nice dinner. Figure it’s another good way to see if she’s trustworthy, you know?”

Boone snorted, but the Courier’s grin didn’t falter. “What? If she comes back at all, you mean,” he stated, completely amazed that she would give the other woman an _invitation_ to rob her. He briefly wondered exactly how many caps was a ‘generous handful’ to Clarke, but quickly banished the thought – any handful, no matter how generous, would be a drop in the bucket for the suddenly wealthy Courier.

Clarke chuckled. “Well, yeah, my good man, that’s kinda the point,” she said as she sat down next to him with her medical bounty bundled up in a clean rag. Boone shifted away from her, turning to expose his injured back, grateful that he wouldn’t have to face her while she was nursing his wounds. He was trying to act unbothered by the prior night, but he couldn’t quite push away the feeling of her pulse beneath his fingers as he lay there in the dark. With the presence of another person, those sorts of moments would become scarce, if not disappear completely, and Boone couldn’t decide how he felt about that. It would be for the best, but that didn’t mean that he had to be happy about it, so he closed his eyes to savor the feeling of the Courier’s fingers on his shoulder as she inspected his aching back. Even through the pain, her hands felt nice on his bare skin, sending minute tremors down his spine as he pushed away the enticing thoughts that her touch brought to mind. He welcomed the warm spread of the numbing high from the Med-X that quickly chased away both his pain and the sensation on Clarke’s hands on him as she began to work on his injuries.

It would do him good to be around another person besides the Courier to shake this ridiculous crush before it got any deeper under his skin. Being with Carla showed him exactly what happened when he got too close to anyone – he was a man living on borrowed time after his time with the NCR. It was only a matter of time before he would have to pay the ultimate price to atone for all those lives that he took, and he wouldn’t let another innocent person get caught up in whatever divine judgement was coming his way, especially not someone like Clarke, someone who just wanted to do good across the Mojave. Someone who _could_ do good across the Mojave. Boone sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose; if keeping his distance was the right thing to do, then why did it make him feel shitty to think about?

“You okay there, Boone?” The Courier asked from over his shoulder and he was vaguely aware of her breath against his ear, making him grit his teeth against a groan.

“Yeah… yeah. Just tired,” he replied, only half lying. Med-X assisted exhaustion was tugging at his eyes but Clarke’s proximity made him feel high in itself, the combination wreaking havoc on his inhibitions. She was so close, he could just turn his head and lean against her shoulder, bury his face against her to close his eyes and the most tempting part was that she would probably let him. It took every ounce of self control he had to keep himself leaning away from her, especially when he felt the vague pressure of her hand resting against his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. 

“I’m almost done here,” she assured him, giving his shoulder another squeeze before she tugged on his shirt. “I’m gunna just cut this off, but I picked up a few more off of Cliff for you.” Boone kept his face buried in his hands and grunted his consent; by now, the Courier could discern the meanings behind his variety of noises, and he didn’t trust his voice. Drugged as he was, he wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth, and he didn’t really want to test it. His body rocked slightly as she cut away the ruined fabric and she made quick work of wrapping white gauze around his chest, much to his relief. It was only a matter of minutes before the woman was tapping his shoulder again to give him the go ahead to lay down, which he immediately did, cushioning his arms in his head with a pleased sigh as he sagged down onto his stomach. 

The soft sounds of the Courier rustling through her pack soothed Boone into a medicated lull until he heard the quiet rattle of the doorknob; he cracked open one eye sleepily. It was only Clarke, unburdened except by her ever present machete, opening the door – off to try to find Veronica, no doubt.’ _Good luck_ ,’ he thought to himself before he cleared his throat. 

The woman paused in the open doorway and looked back, her thick brows drawn down in concern. “You okay?”

Lifting his head an inch, Boone nodded jerkily, and when he spoke, his words were slurred, “Jus’… Thanks, kid.”

The toothy smile that she tossed his way was brilliant as she crinkled up her nose, a smile that Boone was beginning to recognize as the one that she reserved usually for him, and it stoked the warm, lazy fire that was burning in Boone’s belly.

“You’re welcome, my friend,” she said as she stepped backwards over the threshold, but her voice was already fading as Boone closed his eyes, sleep taking him quickly.


End file.
